


Ends of the Earth

by irolltwenties (Shenanigans)



Series: Til the Night [5]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Brainwashing, Dubious Consent, Echo - Freeform, F/F, F/M, Graphic descriptions of dead body, Gratuitous Plot, M/M, Malex, Maribel, Murder Mystery, Scifi shenanigans, Sequel, Til the Night, dubious loyalty, everyone gets a plot, everyone works through their shit, headed towards horror, i still suck at tagging, if I've missed a tag please tell me, if you have suggestions I'm all ears, implied violent conditioning, plot related identity issues, romantic leanings, season 3 fic, soulmate denial, we all get a plot, you get a plot, you too get a plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2020-08-13 10:34:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 89,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20172823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shenanigans/pseuds/irolltwenties
Summary: Sequel toTil the Night is Over.Max Evans had been awake for twenty minutes. He’d been awake for twenty minutes and alive again for five days.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hover for translation. 
> 
> All spanish is thanks to the incredible Lire!

Morning sunlight seeped through the slatted window shades over his bed. Max Evans had been awake for twenty minutes. He’d been awake for twenty minutes and alive again for five days. Five days ago he awoke to screaming, the sound of his siblings echoing off the vaulted curve of the cave hidden behind a twist in the turquoise mines. He had awakened like surfacing, shivering in the cold air, slippery and confused under Liz’s hands. He’d latched on to her, to the way her eyes filled with tears as she smiled at him. She was the only thing in focus. 

The second day he’d woken to tears, tasting salt as he kissed Liz in the dark, clutching her close as she cried. She’d stroked her hands into his hair, thumb moving against his brow. She pet him like she was learning the feel of him by braille. She wet her lips, slow before catching her hair behind her ear and ducking to kiss him. He tasted her grief, her giddy disbelief, her unwavering faith. She held his shoulders with light palms, eyes never leaving his as they moved. He’d whispered the only word that mattered in that moment.

“Liz.”

Today, he woke to quiet; he woke to love. Today, he woke to soft simple light stretching against Liz with a tender touch. Her hair caught on her eyelashes where it fell over her face. She slept nearly face first in her pillow, exhausted and curled up so that her knees were pressed against his hip, her forehead was tucked against his shoulder. She’d stolen most of the covers during the night, tangling up and pulling them around her like a nest. He didn’t mind, simply stretched out on his back with his heels dangling over the edge of the bed and other arm trapped under the weight of her hair. He didn’t mind the way he could feel her so alive against him in the warm puffs of her breath. Max Evans was alive. 

The fire had died down to a soft ember glow, ashes dusting away from the log when it popped and flopped down in the grate. His room was the same, covered with leather bound books with gilt edges that he’d started collecting during garage sales with his mother. He’d remember the way his father looked, leaned back at his desk and staring at something only he could see, leather briefcase open and the legal briefs stacked neatly. Max had learned how to love with a quiet intensity from Phil Evans and the way he would watch his wife make coffee in the mornings over the tortoise shell frames. He learned to love literature from the way his father would stroke a careful thumb over the spines in the law library at his office. Max learned by rote the simple way to take care of family in the way his father would pause and kiss each of them on the temple before he went out of town. It always felt like a promise. It felt like purpose.

“You’re not watching me sleep are you?” Liz muttered, not opening her eyes as she stretched a hand to settle on his stomach. She had a way of petting at his skin with each finger, one at a time that made his breath catch as he smiled helplessly at the ceiling. “Cause that would be creepy.”

“I wouldn’t want that,” Max replied, rubbing his face and letting his hand drop back to the mattress with a small bounce before he heaved onto his side, pushing a knee between hers and hefting her easily to tuck against him. She fit. She fit just under his chin, hips tight and stomachs touching as they breathed. She fit with her hairline just under his lips and he hummed into the beauty of it. “This is real?”

Liz Ortecho stroked up his back, dancing easy sleep numb fingers along his spine and then back down over the plane of muscle to tuck just under his thigh with a little rough voiced groan. She arched against him and he swallowed thickly as she pressed the word against his throat. “Yes.”

She was swimming in an old t-shirt of his, the soft silk of her panties sliding hot against his thigh. He closed his eyes against the way his mouth watered. “Good.”

“Such a way with words,” she teased, tilting her head back to bite at his chin. He glanced down, lost in her dimples for a few moments before he moved. His fingers carded into the mess of her hair, feeling the silky weight of it before tucking to massage lightly against the heat of her scalp. 

“It’s early. I haven’t even had coffee yet. I call foul.”

“Quote me something.” Liz wrinkled her nose, pushing into his touch like a greedy house cat.

“Um.” He ducked, pressing a quick kiss against the corner of her mouth that she chased with a second softer kiss. “I love you simply, without problems or pride,” he quoted Neruda, breathless as she arched against him, reaching to pull his wrist between her thighs. He startled at the way her gaze went focused on him, the touch of her teeth to her bottom lip as she rolled against his knuckles. 

“Max, please,” she whispered, tugging her shirt up and arching as her heels slipped against the sheets.

“I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this,” he muttered, breathing going tight as he ducked, pressing the words into her throat, the soft skin at the divot between her collarbones. “In which there is no I or you,” he managed, eyes gone wide before narrowing with purpose as he turned his wrist and hooked his fingers around the elastic of her panties. “So intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand.” The bed shifted with his weight as he moved lower, mouth slipping between her breasts and down her stomach. Her thighs pressed against his wrist, trapping his fingers against the slippery heat of her. Max wanted, desperately and with _intent_. “So intimate- fuck, _Liz_ you’re so _wet_.” He touched at her, wondering before finding his purpose in the soft breathed moan of his name. “So intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”

Liz shook under his mouth, under his fingers. He loved her like this, all touch and emotion, welling and hot against his fingers. He liked to look up the length of her body as he sank to shoulder between her thighs. He liked to watch the way her chin would tilt, her mouth drop open. He loved the way she let him love her, sighing his name in small whimpers as he opened his mouth to taste. “Así te amo,” she managed, pushing both hands to tangle into his hair, keeping him against her. “Porque no sé amar de otra manera.” He could feel her thighs tremble as he sipped her, gentle and urgent. She would tug his hair even as she slipped another hand to cup the back of his neck. 

The clock on the nightstand started to flicker, the electric feel crackling in the room. It felt taut, buzzing over his skin with a sweet heat. He was tugging her panties down over her knees and off, blind to anything but a need coiling tight in the way she was starting to tense, flushing under him. The lights in the hallway flared bright and then shut off as Max focused, tighter to the single point of contact, the copper penny tang of her against his tongue. He could feel the way she wanted him in the press of her thighs, the clench and release keeping his mouth to time. He could hear the circuitry sizzling, melting like he was under the intense heat and want. Liz had that effect on him, startling him to awareness. She was like licking a battery, sharp and stinging but sweet on the back end, addictive. She made him forget- forget the world just outside the space between her thighs, under his tongue and writhing under his hands. Loving her was a gentle storm gone roiling and wild. He could hear her, muffled but there. He could hear the way her moans were sliding longer, breaking and breathless as she flexed and clutched at him. She was close. She was close with his name on her lips and his fingers tight on her hips. 

Max distilled to this: he needed her, he wanted her, and he had to have her.

She came like she'd been shocked, arching hard and fingers knotted in his hair as she pulled at him. It was urgent, pulling him up and away so she could smear their mouths together, growling into the aftershocks. Max felt the stunned wonder kick into need as he let her lick the taste of herself from his lips. She hooked a heel at his lower back and rolled, settling him deep with an ease that shorted his brain and set him into the stuttered helpless motion of moving in her, with her, for her. He rolled his hips in time with his name on her breath.

The only thing that didn’t seem affected by this was his wristwatch, ticking quietly without the electric need that was shorting his alarm, his phone, and the recessed lights in the hallway. He could hear the soft squeal of electric confusion as a fuse blew but he was curling his arms under Liz, hooking his hands at her shoulders to pull, toes scrambling in the sheets to shove deeper, get closer, be nearer. He focused on the ticking, losing himself in the endless count of time. He stretched into the space between seconds, overwrought and desperate, out of breath as he sought blindly for her mouth. He whispered against her lips, thoughtless endless words that he’d be embarrassed of later if he could remember anything but _this_ and _her_.

He lost himself in the heat and shock of it. He went dark, short circuited and lost in the stuttering ache of loving her. It edged into too sweet, too good, too much.

The ticking reminded him to move, coming back to himself in breaths and pieces. The soft count of time just to his left on the nightstand. He turned, pressing his mouth against her jaw and loosened the rough grip he had on her shoulders as he took a slow breath. 

“Did I hurt y-”

“No.” Liz touched light fingers down his spine, stroking him gently. “Did check out for a minute there, though.” She wrinkled her nose and he smiled, bumping his against hers. “I’ll just add that to my growing list of proof.”

Max managed to get his weight braced onto his forearms, touching light fingers to her face and watching her with soft eyes. “Proof?”

“That Liz Ortecho is amazing at the sex.”

Max laughed and dropped his forehead against hers. “I can’t feel my toes.”

Liz fist pumped. “The best at the sex.”

There was a heart stoppingly perfect moment when she was laughing, eyes closed and smile bright that he could only stare at, wondering. “I may need more proof.”

“Greedy.” Liz wet her lips, frowning momentarily before patting at his lower back. “I need you to move. I do not _want_ you to move. However, my teeth feel fuzzy and I can’t... well, brushing my teeth becomes necessary when I think about how many people I will be talking to at work today.”

“Your breath is pretty spectacular,” Max agreed, face gone serious as he shifted off of her, rolling to the side with a soft hiss. He didn’t protest the pillow to the face, understanding his part in the action. “So violent.”

“You deserved it.”

“No argument.”

“Right. I knew I liked you.” Liz smiled cheekily at him over her shoulder, the bottom hem of his t-shirt scandalously flashing the bottom curve of her ass at him when she started walking out of the room. “It’s Rosa’s first day back on the floor. I don’t want to be late.”

Max rolled onto his back, smiling helplessly at the ceiling before reaching to grab his watch. The clock on his nightstand blinked a solid twelve oclock at him. The watch was an antique from his father, gold face and roman numerals with a small window to the phase of the moon. It had a soft brown leather band with gold clasp. Max frowned, taking a moment to tap the watch face where it had stopped in the night. He wound it absently, rolling out of bed and padding after her as he buckled it to his wrist.

“Shower?”

“Shower.”

**

Rosa decided that she was a Mazzy Star song. Not a specific one, just the vague emotional tangle that followed listening to one on her back on the roof, focused on a constellation she had never heard of before Isobel Evans took her hand. She was standing in front of the wide jukebox at the end of the line of booths in the Crash Down, caught in her reflection in the glass. She looked the same, eerily and exactly the same from the mole under her eye to the way she’d pulled her hair half up for health code, and sighed under the wobbly antenna headband. She wanted to get high, not full blown fucked up and unrecognizable, just a little stoned on the edge of the roof and daring the world to try and kill her again. She wanted to take the edge off.

The problem was the edge was an entire decade where she was dead. And she didn’t remember being dead; she was just dealing with the aftermath of being alive again.

Sanders Salvage Yard wasn’t the scene of resurrection she would have planned for herself, but it’s what she’d been given. She’d been handed a gift by the same hand that had taken her life. Rosa had stared at where Isobel Evans was laid on the ground, the way Maria had scrambled out of the bunker hole in the ground to hover over the blond. She watched, arms crossed over her chest as Kyle fussed, checking her pulse. Michael Guerin and Alex stared at each other across the fire. She’d watched it from the outside, wrapped in flannel and forgetting.

Rosa wasn’t used to being forgotten, but they’d all had ten years of practice.

Liz was the last one out of the hole and Rosa finally took a breath, mouth dropped open as she took a half step back. This wasn’t her place, not anymore. To her left, Hunter Manes had moved between Davi and Cerin and where everyone was standing. The other man, Levi, was watching where Isobel was stretched in the dirt with quiet curious eyes. The men moved like they lived in each other’s pockets, covering the rear while scanning the route ahead. Rosa felt the prickle of _other_ that crawled along her spine and took a half step to the right, closer to the fire.

She’d watched in the firelight, alone until her sister peeled off from the group and found her with careful eyes and a low question. “You okay?”

“Does it matter?” Rosa gave her a small smile and widened her eyes. She sniffed, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Did it work?”

“I hope so.” 

“I want to go home, Liz.” Rosa knew she sounded small, plaintive and childlike. She was feeling thin, loose and watery like she could shiver right out of her skin and right out of this surreal life. She was sure she would wake up at any moment, but she wasn’t sure if she shouldn’t just go back to sleep, back to the dark.

“Do you think you can wait for li-”

“No.” Rosa reached out, interrupting and grabbing at Liz’s hand. “I _can’t_.” Rosa felt herself breaking. It was there at the surface, trembling in the way her throat went raw and rasping, closing around words she didn’t let herself think, let alone speak. “We’re only as sick as our secrets. We’re only as sick as our secrets.” The Salvage Yard felt small, closing in around her and she took one breath, another. She let out a breath and looked up, finding a place inside that was brave. It felt like Jim Valenti. “I can’t just grow up overnight. I don’t get to drink this away anymore. I can’t smoke myself stupid. I can’t bury it in alcohol and weed and I can’t go numb again. Every time I close my eyes, it's terrifying. It’s so fucking scary because it’s like being gone again and I don’t have anything but you guys. You’re it and you keep running off and there’s blood everywhere. I need help and I need a meeting. I need to be able to go for a fucking _walk_ and to try and catch up.” She bit her lip, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. The heat of a tear tracks fast over her cheek and she can feel it all, all of it clawing at her throat. She wants to drown it out, waving a hand around the group in a tight circle. “It all kept moving and I’m still back there and you’re all here and everything is different and I’m just supposed to keep up and I don’t even know where to start?”

“Rosa-”

“”Liz, sólo quiero ir a _casa_. Quiero ver a _papá_.””

She watched her sister hesitate, but the moment of indecision was brief. Liz was always best with a plan, with something in front of her to be done. Rosa could count on one hand the times she’d been able to lure her little sister away to do something wild. There was the one bright shining afternoon she’d checked her out of high school for a fake dental appointment. She’d smiled brightly at the school secretary, widening her eyes and hustling Liz out the door around the whispered protests.

“I don’t care about your test,” Rosa said as they walked down the front sidewalk to where her battered Celica was sitting, still running. “You can make it up.” She dropped her mirrored aviators on, twirling to walk backwards, arms out to encompass the day. “This day? Only happens once.” 

Liz had frowned, glancing back over her shoulder and clutched her gathered books tighter to her chest before giving in. That moment, the moment she had relaxed and let herself shake loose with a laugh, that moment was Rosa’s favorite. She grabbed the passenger door, tossing her purse into the back before waving her sister into the seat with a grand gesture. “You’re sure?”

“Nope.” Rosa had shrugged and shut the door. “That’s the point, Liz. Live a little.”

Rosa felt the realization hit her like a blow: Liz had lived. Liz had lived a whole life outside of her for a decade. It wasn’t a theory, it was the reality surrounding her. Rosa had gone away and Liz had been alone, living a life without someone to make sure she walked outside, made sure she remembered to be silly, to be selfish, to be human. Liz had learned to survive without her. Rosa was a ghost in her own life, she was haunting her friends.

The Salvage Yard went dark, the fire starting to bank and gutter, the embers glowing heat. She watched Maria hover over Isobel Evans with a frown. She watched Michael Guerin and Alex gravitate towards each other. She watched Kyle Valenti help the girl who killed her. She watched because that’s what ghosts did. She felt unmoored, like she could just drop the heavy blanket around her shoulders and drift away caught like light thistle on the breeze to bounce and tumble into the distance, forgotten past the wish made on her passing.

She let Liz bundle her into the passenger seat of her rental car. She leaned her head against the window, watching the dark scramble past in the bits and pieces visible on the shoulder. She glanced over when Liz pulled off the road and took a long slow breath. She’d spent so many hours driving these back roads, zigzagging aimlessly from one side of town to the other. Restless, irritable, and discontent: that’s what Jim had called it. That feeling that sat just under her skin and made it impossible to sit still, to stay put. She was always trying to get away. She had carefully cataloged each exit from this town, each way to drive. She could go north and hit the endless straight away that fell flat until it hit Colorado. She could drive south and find the bridge she and Frederico had hid under, giggling into the well packed bowl and the sound of something like escape. She could drive East and end up in Texas with it’s endless lolling prairie that led nowhere, but no one ever escaped. She could head West, head to Los Alamos and the addiction recovery center Jim had suggested. She could fall into the six month inpatient, but in the end she’d never been able to outrun the problem. 

The asphalt took a turn before stretching straight to the horizon again. The headlights caught three white shapes in the dark. 

“I have to, um.” Liz wet her lips and gripped the steering wheel, staring ahead at the crosses on the side of the road. 

“I can do it.”

“No, you d-”

Rosa pushed out the door before the protest could find her and keep her in place. She was tired. She was so tired of being reminded that there was something off, that something was wrong. She was tired of the bits of a life lived around her. She wasn’t a fucking memory anymore. She was right here, standing on the side of the road in the bright headlights. She wondered if she was washed out and pale, sharp contrasts in combat boots as she stared at her name painted on white wood. She heard the door alarm dinging where the car sat, running. 

The crosses were well taken care of, better treatment for the team of outright bitches that were kept in memory sweeter than they’d ever been in life. Hers was battered and a little broken. It seemed right. It seemed fair that she’d been remembered as she was, a little broken and a little battered but well loved. She snagged the bracelets from the cross and then fought a rising urge to stomp and kick, break it and scream. She fought the need to smash what was real and simple reached and plucked the white picket memorial from the ground and tucked it under her arm with a smile.

She started laughing, welling and ebullient as she scampered back to the car, throwing the cross in the back and slapping her hands against the dash. “Go. Go. Go.”

Liz coughed a startled chuckle, caught up in her enthusiasm and the back end of the rental fish tailed slightly, flinging gravel into the dark before catching and speeding around the curve to the straightaway. “What?”

“Danger raid your own death,” Rosa was beaming, heart pounding as she realized that this was her life now, realized that she had a second chance. She unrolled the window, howling into the dark before starting to sing the Third Eye Blind song that had been stuck in her head. She turned, smiling and reaching to cup the curve of Liz’s shoulder, watching the way her dark hair flipped and coiled in the wind from the open window. “You want to know how deeply my soul goes?” Rosa was free, a melody loose in the dark. “Deeper than bones. Deeper than bones.”

She managed to distract herself with humming for the rest of the drive, sinking low in the seat and propping her feet on the dash. She watched the city start to pepper into her view. It started with a sign then a suburb. It melted from houses to the strip malls and from the strip malls to a few abandoned buildings near the train tracks and then finally the line of scrubby oak trees that mark the quaint downtown. She tracked the two and three story federalist row brick buildings with the pale mouldings until her eyes caught on the familiar neon of home.

The Crash Down cafe had been a local breakfast spot since 1918, but had only been in their family since 1994. She knew the side alley and the specific smell of the second floor. She knew that her clothes would always smell just slightly of french fries and chocolate milk. She knew that the second floor opened from the back stairwell to a hallway that had five doors and one small alcove with battered overstuffed chairs covered in mismatched blankets. The bathroom was at the end of the hall with a second master cannibalized out of what should have been a guest room. Her parents, her father’s room was on the left and she and Liz had shared a room until she was 14 and demanded her own space. Her Dad had moved his small office to a filing cabinet and a laptop he kept tucked between the chairs in the alcove and moved Liz into the smaller bedroom. Rosa kept the room with the windows that opened to the fire escape.

“What if it didn’t work?” she heard herself ask, wetting her lips and staring at where the paint on her stencil graffiti was flaking and old. She’d painted it last month. Ten years ago last month.

“Then we tell him the whole truth.” Liz shrugged, grabbing the rear view mirror after she parked, fixing her hair and checking for blood before looking over at where Rosa was staring at the fading flying saucer.

“Right.” 

“Rosa?”

Rosa looked over and frowned at the obvious concern on Liz’s face, frowned at the way it made her look older. “I’m good.”

“We have to take down the shrine first.”

“There’s a shrine?”

“You thought there wouldn’t be?”

Rosa looked down sharply, picking at the cuticle on her thumbnail thoughtfully before giving a small shrug. “I wasn’t easy like you.” She took a long breath, looking up again at the saucer on the brick. “And I wasn’t really _his_.”

“That-” Liz cut off and Rosa glanced over, surprised at the sudden venom in her voice. Liz had bitten her bottom lip, eyes flashing as they welled. Liz started again, voice tight as she tried to keep her words even. “Es lo más estúpido que has dicho nunca. Te quiero, but that was unbelievably selfish. That man? That man is your _Father_. He is our Dad. There is no way anyone else could ever. He.” She cut off, tilting her face up and blinking quickly. “He is your Dad. Nothing could ever change that. Nothing. Not even Jim Valenti. Not our _mother_. Nada.”

“_Liz_.”

Her sister dashed at her eyes with quick fingertips and took a breath, smiling quick and sharp without a hint of dimple. “So. We clean up the evidence. Get rid of the shrine. And get you inside and _home_.” She paused, reaching and touching the end of Rosa’s hair. “Okay?”

“You’re not the boss of me.”

“I’m older than you now. So, I kind of am.”

Rosa narrowed her eyes, considering. “Debatable.” She sniffed, turning forward and nodded. “If we don’t do this right now I am going to lose my shit.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Liz agreed, muttering as she pushed the door open.

The interior of the cafe hadn’t changed, it was still her handwriting on the wall proclaiming the menu. She swallowed thickly, walking in automatic soft footsteps and grabbing Liz before she stepped on the wobbly board just past booth five. She nodded, taking a small side step and turned the corner, coming to a full stop at the swinging door to the back of house area. She and Liz were plastered all over the wall, pictures just tacked to the corner. She was smiling, laughing against Liz’s shoulder at Prom. There was a picture of her wearing the antenna as a little girl, front tooth half grown in and too large for her face as she held her sister in an awkward bony hug. She saw her mother in profile. She saw Liz in two, no, four graduation caps. She saw her Father and Liz smiling together somewhere outside the grand canyon. She could reach up and touch the moments she’d missed, but instead her fingers found the program from her funeral. 

It was soft well worn paper, good quality and a picture of her in the middle. She hated that picture. She looked like a good girl. She looked like a sweet girl. She looked like the kind of girl a father would want and not the kind of girl she had been. She traced the edges of it and glanced back to where Liz was starting to pull down candles and beads, bits of a history that had been caught like a fly in amber, ageing only on the outside, but trapped forever in possibility that would never come. She tugged the program down, folding it up and shoving it in her back pocket. “Where else?”

Liz pointed through the swinging door to the stairwell that led up to the overhead apartment. Rosa nodded, climbing the stairs carefully as she had her entire life. She was so used to sneaking in, to sneaking past, that she didn’t realize she was falling into old habits until she was at the top of the stairs and looking at a small shrine to the Mother Mary with her picture in a frame and countless candles melted down and into each other, melted to keep her safe. She stared at it for a moment, wetting her lips before picking it up and turning to put it in her room. She’d managed to make it three steps down the hall when her Father’s door opened and she had a panicked second to bolt into action, taking the last three steps to push the door open and throw the wax covered box into the room- the picture clattering off the bed with a bounce to break on the floor. She winced.

“Mija?” She heard the quiet hope in her Father’s voice. “Do you know what time it is? Li- _Rosa_?”

“Yeah, hola papá.” She turned, biting her lip and trying to look casual even as her heart seized up in her chest, twisting at how much older he looked. He was going salt and pepper, laugh lines creased deeper into his face and a soft sadness around his mouth that hung just below his eyes in tired circles. “I’m home?”

“Oh.” He looked lost for a moment, blinking and taking half a step forward like she would run, she would disappear if he reached for her. His eyes welled and she was going to lose it. She was going to puddle completely if he cried. She had been trying to be so strong. She had been so strong and so scared and her father- ”Te he echado de menos.”

Rosa’s face crumbled and she shook her head a little. “I’m sorry I was gone so long. I didn’t-” she cut off, wetting her lips and twisting her hands together as she managed a tight full shrug. “I didn’t mean to. Nunca quise irme por tanto tiempo.”

He nodded and opened his arms even as she launched herself at him. She was home. She was _safe_. She thought she was safe.

It only took a week to prove her wrong. She was surrounded by a world that turned without her, remember her in passing. She’d heard the whispers when she walked down the street. She’d ducked her head and taken a deep breath when a woman had stared at her in the grocery store, talking loudly into her cell phone. She didn’t want this life where he father smiled through the casual racism. She didn’t want the world that painted slurs on the front window for her Dad to soap off in the early morning light before breakfast rush. She didn’t like that she’d left and it was angry but she’d come back to violence. The world seemed to explode overnight with something that had simply been simmering under the surface when she’d gone dark. 

She was getting used to being in the future, a stutter step to the right of where she’d left.

The steps of the fire escape were bubbling with rust under the paint, but they still creaked when she grabbed the hand rail and hauled herself to the roof. She’d found it mostly the same, the same view. The sign more worn, the paint flaking off the rail. She could sit up there and pretend that it was still ten years ago. She could close her eyes and pretend that tomorrow she was going to run away, run away and fix her life with Jim’s help. She found herself wishing she could text him. She found herself texting Kyle instead. She wished Maria would show up, smoke some peppery weed and forget for a minute that Rosa was sober now. She wanted to just take the edge off. Just. She wanted to smooth herself out.

Now, she frowned at her reflection, focusing in on the names of songs written sloppily in her dad’s slanting handwriting. She started to reach, finding herself in old patterns when someone reached past her and selected a song she’d never heard of: Hallelujah - Panic! At the Disco.

“Released in 2016.” Kyle Valenti held out a present, gift shop wrapped around loose shoulders and lifted eyebrows. “Has some definite _wobble with it_ feels, so we can pretend that I’m dancing to save me the embarrassment.”

“You picked the song; you have to dance.” Rosa sniffed, taking the present and narrowing her eyes at him. “You know the rules, Valenti.”

He was wearing scrubs and two days of stubble, hair flat in the front with the weird cowlick he got from the surgical caps. “Open it.” He bounced once, tilting his head as the song started, a rumble of horns and scattering of drums that swelled. When it crested he flicked his eyebrows up and gave her a small wiggle of shoulders before pointing at the gift again. 

“You didn’t have to.”

“No shit.”

Rosa snorted, tearing into the simple striped paper and popping the sticky ribbon on her head as she turned the plastic wrapped white box over in her hands. “You got me an...?”

“iPhone X.” He shrugged. “Time to get you caught up to the present.”

She wet her lips, thumbs tracing the shape of the logo with a soft reverence. “I can’t.”

“Too late.” He shrugged, reaching to push the box up and her head followed, holding his gaze. “Welcome back.” 

**

There was a lazy moment when Maria turned, the sheets she lay in tangling like art around her hips. She was already amped hot, stretching in a shaking line. It wasn’t difficult to tilt her head back into the mouth on her neck, the soft lipped kisses that climbed her racing pulse to breathe hot little noises against her ear. There was a hand in her hair, a hand at her ribs, long fingers tracing the soft curve of her breast. Maria arched into the thigh between hers, arched into the sheer want that seemed to swallow her. She clutched, pulling the weight close, the slip of skin on skin hazy and heady, the white room pulsing once. Everything was blurry, indistinct and hard to hold. She wanted to open her eyes, wanted to wake into this touch fully. It was soft moans, breaking little noises that echoed around. Everything was just under too much, dampened and muffled in the aching white of it all. She groaned, a sweet throb between her thighs- aching and swollen as the mouth closed on hers and she shocked electric. It felt indistinct and lovely.

“Touch me,” she pleaded, reaching to card her fingers into the pale hair. It slipped through her fingers, fast and silky. She sighed, tightening her thighs around the press and hissing a surprised noise when the hand at her breast smoothed over her stomach and lower, curling tentatively to slip against her. 

“Iso-” She cut off, startled and heart pounding as the blonde lifted her head, mouth kiss swollen and eyes heavy with want. “Shit!”

She startled awake, over hot and panicked, twisting away from the surprise of the dream. Maria flailed so hard she spilled out of the tangle of her patterned sheets and onto the rug under her bed. She stared at her ceiling, confused for a set of breaths, hair wild as she found her way back from the confused sex of the dream to the confused bleary wakefulness of her morning. She wet her lips, brows drawn together in confusion before going boneless and shaking her head. “Fired. Brain, you’re fired.”

Maria DeLuca lived in a loft apartment on the fifth floor of a federalist row walk up. Some days she regretted the choice when she panted her way floor after floor with bags of groceries banging against her thighs and weighing her down. The front door opened to the guest room and the last set of internal stairs. The two stories were functionally separate. She’d moved back into her old room when she’d moved her mother into the care facility. Mimi’s wandering making it impossible to let her stay in the bottom bedroom, too close to the door and the world that she was lost in. The stairs led up, one quick turn before opening to the attic loft. It was always a little too hot in the summers, a little too cold in the winters, but it had white painted exposed brick and windows all along the south facing wall. It was airy and bright, the ceiling pointed high and then slanting in fun shapes through the bedroom and out to the small patio tucked onto the back of the apartment- off the small open kitchen. 

The hardwood floors were layered with colorful rugs, floor pillows, and small piles of shoes or stacks of paperwork. She’d created an office in the corner with a white filing cabinet and re-purposed vanity as the desk. The one door led to her bedroom and the verdant green of her plants. She kept the mattress on the floor, the ceiling slanting low in the north side- small rectangular windows slanting light around the room. She had her own full bathroom enclosed in her room and no recessed closet- just a rolling rack where she hung her nice clothes and an antique dresser filled with neatly folded laundry. The whole place usually smelled like soft incense and her perfume. It smelled like her life and she stared at the ceiling, legs still half on the mattress where she’d rolled out and sprawled. 

It smelled like waffles this morning. There was a crisp browned sugar scent with the slight buttery tint sliding along the floor and filling the space. It smelled like mornings in her childhood. She’d grab the waffle from her mom, wrapped in a condensation damp paper towel as she ran down the steps and out to catch the bus that picked up at the corner of 16th and Walnut to make it to school on time. Mimi didn’t toast Eggo’s, making the batter homemade for her daughter every Wednesday. Waffle Wednesdays were a staple and Maria would smile into the bites on the bus, high backed vinyl covered black seats rumbling along the pitted city roads toward Roswell High. Rosa Ortecho had been her best friend for as long as she could remember. The other girl would flop into the seat next to her already talking. Maria would listen as she chewed, nodding in the appropriate breaks in the conversation. Later, when she’d be riding shotgun in the battered blue civic she would still smile into the waffles.

She hadn’t had waffles since two years after graduation when Mimi had started a batch and gotten distracted, drifting out onto the patio to stare across the city as she talked to herself about what it would take to save the planet with recycling. The waffle iron had been an older model found at a thrift store that didn’t shut off automatically and Maria had pulled the whole thing from the wall- smoking and charred- to throw into the sink in a panic when the smoke alarm shrieked. The billow of black smoke filled the apartment as she flipped the faucet to put it out.

She hadn’t had waffles in almost eight years. Someone was cooking waffles. The realization snapped through her with a white hot panic as she scrambled out of the sheets and stumble sprinted to the kitchen in her over large t-shirt and pair of folded boxers she slept in. “Mom, what are you doing?”

Mimi turned confused eyes on her as she flipped the waffle iron easily, popping it open and spearing the perfectly golden confection to settle onto the plate. “Is this a rhetorical question?”

Maria looked between her mother, the waffle, and the ceiling in a slow loop as she caught up with the reality of her life. She frowned, rubbing at her eyes and then tilted her head at where Mimi was watching her. The moment seemed to stretch into something vaguely awkward as she watched her mother start to realize that this wasn’t normal anymore. “Mom, no, it’s okay.” 

Mimi cleared her throat and set the fork down. “What did I do?”

“It’s not impor-”

“Maria.”

Maria crossed the distance, silent on bare feet and took the plate, the waffle looking perfect and golden. The whole house smelled like the sweet sugar of childhood. “You got distracted and almost set the house on fire. You haven’t been allowed to cook on your own in about five years.” She shrugged, talking to the waffle so she wouldn’t have to watch her mom process the life she’d been living. 

The kitchen was small, a line of cupboards and cabinets that started just a foot to the right of the stairwell and curled under and around the east end of the apartment. The door to the patio set between the stove and the refrigerator. She’d installed childproofing on most of her home over the years, used to thumbing the hitch down to get the drawers open and squeezing the special locking mechanism that was under the sink where she stored the dangerous chemicals. Mimi was wearing a soft flowing sundress in pastel florals with bangles at her wrists and a looping brown belt. She’d left her hair natural, haloing around her face as she cleared her throat and moved to make another waffle. Maria tried to ignore the small frown, the way her whole body went tense. “I didn’t forget the recipe,” she said after a long moment. “Eat, love.” 

Maria turned, leaning a hip against the counter and smiled down at the breakfast. “Thanks for making breakfast.”

“It’s my _job_,” Mimi said, voice tinting a little bitter. “Taking care of you.”

“Mom.”

Mimi sighed. “We can start cleaning up the bar,” she said after a moment, closing the waffle iron and flipping it into the locked position. “You can take a day off. Just relax for awhile and I can see what our regul-”

“Mom.” Maria wet her lips.

“They’re going to be so surprised!”

“_Mom._” Maria reached over, curling a hand against Mimi’s thin wrist, birdlike and delicate under her palm. “There’s so much we need to talk about.”

“We can talk about it over shots.” Mimi smiled, nodding with a bright surety.

“The Pony was shut down.” Maria had wanted to talk about this when her mother was paying attention, when it felt like the right time. This wasn’t it. This was blurted over breakfast and she watched Mimi’s face crumble in confusion before shaking her head in denial and circle back to surprise. “Just... just for a little while. I’ll fix it. I just need to figure out how to pay for it.”

“What? No. That’s not.” Mimi took a step back. “You were doing so well. I remember that much. We were doing well enough that-”

“Mom,” Maria swallowed. “We don’t have to talk about this right now. I’m working on getting it reopened, but there’s so much you missed.”

“I didn’t go anywhere,” Mimi muttered, angry and pulling her hand away. “I didn’t go _anywhere_. I was _right here_.” She stalked across the floor, pacing in a quick back and forth. 

“You were _gone_.” Maria threw her hands up. “You might have been here, but you were _gone_.” She set the plate down, rubbing a hand over her face and pushing the sudden hot anger back into a small box. “You didn’t mean to go. I know that. I know you were trying to protect me.” She had gotten so used to gentling her mother, raising hands and slipping into a soothing tone to get her in the door from the dark, in the door and into shoes. She was used to driving along certain familiar back roads and stopping on the curb when the headlights caught the gauzy white of her dress in the dark. She was used to taking things away that hurt her, used to being forgotten, used to simply sorting through what was being said for a shred of the woman she knew. She was used to talking to a mother who was a fractured reflection of the woman she had known. “Mom, I’m sorry. It’s oka-”

“Don’t _handle_ me, Maria.” Mimi frowned sharply at her, aware and present.

Maria blinked, unconsciously mimicking her mother’s face. “I’ve been _taking care of you_ for the last five years.”

“I have been taking care of you your entire life.”

“I don’t want to have this conversation right now, Mom.” She closed her eyes, taking a long slow breath. “I don’t want to fight. Please.” She lifted her chin, going soft and small as she stared at her mother. She wanted to just have a simple morning of waffles and pretend. Just one morning that wasn’t full of anything but her mom and love and hope. Maria just let herself be a kid for a brief second, breaking and trembling in front of where her mother was already in motion- gathering her up and hugging her close.

“Okay, baby.” Maria let herself be held, held up and comforted in their apartment.

**

Michael woke up in a strange bed. It wasn’t an unusual experience, but it was usually paired with a blinding headache, the swollen sticky feel of yesterday’s drinking under his skin, and the vague discomfort of wondering where he’d left his shoes, his pants, or his truck. This bed was made with simple white sheets, a blue and gray quilt, two pillows, and the smell of something that felt like home. It smelled like cheap two in one green shampoo and Alex’s skin. Michael wet his lips and smiled slowly, tilting his head back on the pillow even as he reached back to grab the wrought iron bars of the bed frame and stretched. The bed wasn’t large, but it was empty, the side closest to the window gone cool, but the sheets tugged straight and folded like the bed had been made around him. He had a vague memory of being told to go back to sleep, the press of a smile to his forehead, and the surety of not being alone sinking into his skin.

Alex’s bedroom was small, functional, and tidy with the bed placed in the center, the closet tucked at the end with folding doors and a bathroom to the left. There were textured rugs spaced around with a yoga mat unrolled between the left hand side of the bed and the wall. Over the door to the kitchen was a hang bar installed in the door frame. Michael wet his lips and made a mental note to watch the next time Alex woke up. 

There was a motel room off of Route 17 that had a cheap nightly rate and most of their memories together. He knows that Alex stands up, stretches in a slow shift of golden skin and lean muscle before folding forward to press his palms flat on the floor. Michael knows that the fold is followed by Alex stepping back into plank and pushing through long slow sets of push-ups that leave him flushed and shaking. He knows because some mornings he’d wriggled to the opposite edge from where he slept and reach to trace the two good fingers of his left hand down Alex’s spine. His skin was always so warm, slippery and Michael would have to roll onto his back and push a hand under the sheets, whispering Alex’s name as he spread his thighs.

Michael now wanted a new place for memories. He wanted to sit with his back against a pile of pillows and watch Alex do reps of pull-ups on the bar between the kitchen and the bedroom. He wanted to watch and not have to wonder how long he had. He wanted to slow it down, slow it down and savor it because Alex was coming back to bed, back to him. Michael _wanted._

It was sometime past dawn, but not quite the full soft light of morning. Michael woke up early and stayed up too late, sleep was something he’d always treated as necessary yet frowned upon. He’d pull himself out of bed and pull on his pants before heading out into the morning air for work. He could sling his leg over the seat of a four wheeler to head out over the rolling plain to catch the early edge of the cattle to start steering back to the paddock or sling a leg over the rolling stool at the auto shop as he pushed from one toolbox to the other to switch from the us to metric depending on the type of car. He wanted to sling a leg over Alex’s hips and watch the way he’d smile and then go soft, wondering as he let his palms settle over Michael’s thighs.

Michael sighed, pushing up and bouncing a little as he flipped the sheets back and swiveled his feet to the floor. He fingered the sleep from the corner of his eye, tilting his head left to right before bending with a hiss of stiff muscles to snag his jeans from the floor. They were still a bit damp as he stepped into them, hitching them up his hips. He gathered his courage and faced the day and the possibility that things said in the dark would disappear in the light again. He was hopeless that way. He grabbed a shirt from the floor and ducked into it, popping out the top with a huff as his shoulder caught on the doorway.

“Alex?” 

“Out here.” He sounded further away than the living room and Michael padded into the kitchen.  
It was empty, but the coffee was brewed with a mug waiting on the counter. He touched the handle with light fingers and a soft smile before turning to edge around the table and walked into the living room. The front door was open, cool morning air pebbling on Michael’s skin. He reached over, snagging his faded plaid button down from the back of the captains chair and slinging it on as he moved out onto the porch.

Alex Manes was sitting on the steps in a well worn sweatshirt over plaid flannel pajama pants. He had two crutches leaning on the steps just to his left, right shoulder against the post. He was messy hair and a careful hopeful smile as he looked over at Michael as he settled next to him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Alex ducked his head, smiling at his lap before turning to look at Michael again. Michael felt himself smiling in return, giddy and a little foolish as he sucked his teeth and looked out at the lawn. Alex’s beagle, Wentz, was doing a long lazy lap, tail high as she loped. She would pause, going curious as she dropped her nose and walked in determined little marches until something distracted her and she’d run in another wild circle before pouncing forward and following a new scent trail. “So, you got a dog.”

“I did.” Alex wet his lips, gaze flicking down to his lips before he looked away from Michael to watch the beagle fondly.

“That mean you’re planning to stay awhile?” Michael scratched at his jaw with a thumb, trying for light and casual but failing spectacularly. He leaned back, braced on his palms and let his legs sprawl out in front of him as he tried not to stare at Alex’s profile.

He was never ready for Alex to look back. He thought about it, silent and hopeful as he cataloged the planes of his cheekbones, the curve of his brow, the soft downy cowlicks of his hair, the darker rash of stubble on his top lip. He knew Alex in brief moments, in carefully caught millimeters of skin. He was used to looking, but when Alex looked back it was like he stopped breathing, locked in the intensity of it. “Yes.”

Michael could have stopped a sunrise more easily than his smile, slow and genuine. “Okay.”

**

Kyle knew Arizona was going to kiss him the moment she turned and tossed her purse back into her ridiculous Econoline. He knew because she had been quiet for most of the ride back, singing along to Creedence Clearwater and nervously pushing her hair behind her ear. Arizona was talkative; she was sharp edged humor and sly smiles, but Kyle liked this side of her better. He knew because he'd wanted to kiss her from the moment she'd heaved the engine back to life and tilted her head at the passenger seat. He knew because it had been electric and tense between them as he listened to Cerin and Davi chatter aimlessly about whatever TV show the teens had missed that night, speculation and fondness tinting their tone warm. Levi left with Hunter to start tracking Flint before the night got too far ahead of them. Kyle spent a long tense gaze corralling the teens into the back of the Econoline with a quiet thank you to Arizona as the door slid shut. 

Kyle knew she was going to kiss him when she hopped down from the driver's side and ducked out of her bag. She'd felt the edge of the strap thoughtfully before looking up at him and tossing it inside.

"It wasn't just the hiking gear," she murmured, aware of the way they had gone quiet behind the soft tense feel of the air in the moonlight. "That was a bonus, but it wasn't the whole reason."

He wanted to lean his shoulder against the side of the van, but settled into a slow step forward instead. He tilted his head, watching her. In the dark she was deep shadows and soft gradients, the sharp smirk softer and hopeful as she wet her lips. He wished he'd had some gum, a toothbrush, anything other than the half flat mountain dew he'd swigged just before hopping out and waking the sleeping teens in the back to send stumbling across the lawn to different trailers. Kyle Valenti knew what was happening; it had happened so many times before. She lifted her chin and looked at him and Kyle knew he was going to kiss her the moment her mouth dropped open slightly.

"There are easier ways to get me-"

"Just kiss me already."

"So pushy," he murmured, watching his fingers card into her hair, lifting the waves slightly as he turned his gaze back to her eyes in the dark. She looked her age then, younger than him and wary of the teasing. He found himself hating and loving the uncertainty on her face: hated because it meant someone had told her she wasn't good enough and loved it because he could fix that. Kyle liked to fix things.

"Ky-"

"I _like it_." He reassured her, breath warm as he ducked to press the words carefully into her lips, against the way she inhaled sharply and pushed tight against him. He wanted to smile at it, the easy want, but touched his tongue, tasting the soft sigh instead. He had time. He'd make time for her, for this.

The small community was quiet, a TV somewhere in the distance muffled and indistinct. There was one orange street light next to the pavilion in the center that tried to reach them, but fell just short and spread soft blue shadows instead. The moon was waxing, gibbous and wobbling behind the fast moving clouds. It was just them in the dark, just the sharp line of her petite frame pressed against him, the cut of her jaw cupped between his palms as he kissed her. Kyle knew he was going to kiss her the moment she'd settled in the bar stool next to him at the casino. He'd known he was going to kiss her and had been waiting, waiting for the right moment that would fit just like _this_ between his palms. He had wanted her to sigh and go soft for him, because of him. He wanted it to feel unhurried and deliberate, methodical and utterly charmed by the way she was making soft little noises now and pushing up onto her toes while wrapping both arms up and over his shoulders.

Kyle liked to kiss like he was an act that could never be followed.

He’d wanted to kiss her palm when she’d flung her hand out to him, glancing at the wrist cuff of her coat and then back at the road. The communication silent and the intent obvious. He’d laughed, shaking his head as he gripped the edge of the cuff and watched her tug and twist out of the leather jacket, the buckles on the sides jangling quietly under the music. Kyle tugged the jacket off and folded it, settling it between them on the console that had an air freshener, a prickling of random pens, and a leather bag cinched tight. He wanted to lean over, unbuckle the seat belt and push her hair back to make room for his mouth just behind her ear. He shifted instead, turning to watch her drive. She kept the seat leaned back, arm straight with her wrist draped casually proficient over the steering wheel. 

Arizona glanced over at him, wetting her lips and pretending confusion. “What?”

“Nothing.” He liked that she didn’t wear a bra. He liked that she wore at least seven silver rings and huge hoop earrings. He liked a lot of things about her, the small bits of herself she’d let him collect up and touch thoughtfully.

Kyle Valenti wasn't above pulling her out of the driver's seat if they'd park at the side of the road and kissing her until she writhed in his lap. He wasn't above necking like teens in the plush captains chair seats. She smiled, wrinkling her nose and reached to snag the soda to take a sip. "I'll drop them first, if that's okay?"

"Seems like a good plan." He nodded, thrilled that she was giving him a chance at being alone. Thrilled at the possibility of touching her with intent.

She looked over at him. "So, you're really a doctor?"

"Surgeon." He tilted his head back, slanting a look at her out of the corners of his eyes. "My dad helped people. I'm not good with guns, not that guy, you know?" He huffed a breath. "I thought I was lining my life up to be something awesome- big house, big car, big life." He reached, taking the soda from her and sipping once. "Turns out life had other plans for me. Do have the house and the car, though. That part is taken care of."

Arizona nodded. "Big house, big car." She shook her head. "Totally should have lifted your wallet."

"You just wanted to feel my ass, don't lie."

"Can't a girl do both?" She grinned at the highway, flushing slightly and leaned to twist the dial of the music louder.

He'd wanted to kiss her, feel the flush heat her skin. He knew she wanted to kiss him when she flicked her eyes over, lingering on his profile before flicking down to his mouth.

Reality was always better. He'd forget things like the way she could drag her teeth over his bottom lip or break apart to pant before mouthing his chin. He'd forget simple little things like the way her teeth sounded on his stubble. He'd forget what it felt like to have her fingers tug urgently at his hair. He'd forget that his back would ache just slightly under his shoulder blades because he had to hunch down just a little to taste deeper. He'd forget what it felt like to have someone exhale his name against the shell of his ear and how it always throbbed directly to his dick. Reality wasn't just some glossy long kiss that sipped and ached into itself. It was hands that didn't quite know where to settle, the feel of a hard nipple under fabric slipping against his wrist as he touched along her collarbone. Reality was the sound of cicadas and the crackle of a television playing late night movies in the dark. It was the way the whole van creaked when he turned, reaching low to slide both palms over her ass to hook just under the curve to pull her hips flush against where he was starting to go hard in his jeans.

"Is this okay?"

"Yes," she breathed, turning to chase his mouth, chase the consent with another kiss. She pulled back suddenly, blinking at him in the dark. "Is this okay with you?"

He’d messed her hair, strands hanging around her face and wild against the dark. The thing with nighttime was that it was never really dark, just blurred and soft edged while his eyes adjusted. He thumbed along her right eyebrow and carded his fingers into her hair, tightening with a small tug that hitched in her breathing. “Yes.” 

Kyle wanted to kiss her, to keep kissing her until he had his hands under the thin cotton of her band t-shirt to brush the edge of his thumb over where her breasts were pebbling in the cold, in her want of him. He wanted to kiss her until her mouth was swollen and red. He wanted to kiss her, her neck, her collarbone, the hollows between her ribs, the soft smooth skin just at the inside of her thigh where they rubbed together when she walked. He wanted to keep kissing her but he was stroking over her scalp, the tangle of black hair warm and lovely.

“But?” She leaned back, blinking and focusing in on him sharply, fingers twisting into his shirt to push knuckles against his chest. “There’s a but. I can taste it.”

He nodded, reluctant and unwilling even as his better judgement kicked in. “I want to take my time. I want this to be _right_.” He shrugged, ducking to kiss her soft, just a bare press of lips and breath. “I want you.”

“There’s that but again,” she managed, voice cracking as she pressed her forehead against his.

“But,” he smiled against her temple, fingers sliding down the line of her spine to settle at her hips, gripping quick and going soft. “I need sleep. I need to go home. I work in the morning. If I’m tired? I could kill people.”

She ducked, taking a breath that lifted her shoulders before pushing both hands against his chest and taking a deliberate step back. “Right.” She chewed her bottom lip, eyes closed and head turned away. “Got it. Okay.” She sighed, shaking her head. “I really wish you were just a stock clerk at Walmart right now.”

"I never thought I would agree with that sentiment," Kyle laughed, startled and shocked at the sound as he gestured down at where he was uncomfortably hard. "And yet here we are."

Arizona narrowed her eyes at him, taking a slow slinky step forward and cupped him through his jeans. "The pity I have for you. So large. So deep." She squeezed him once, daring, and tipped up to smile against the corner of his mouth. “Poor thing.”

"God _damn it_."

"_That's_ the spirit."

They'd driven back down the mountain in silence, Kyle's hands wandering to find her thigh, the soft skin at the inside of her elbow, the delicate bones of her wrist. They'd driven back in silence that settled heavy between them as he laced his fingers between hers, watching her in profile as she navigated the lazy switchback with a deft surety. She was a fine boned woman with an animated face and warm hooded eyes. He was planning to kiss her again. He knew he would. He wanted to kiss her now, unbuckle and lean over to mouth along the line of her neck, feel her duck her ear against his hair with a sigh as her fingers went tight and purposeful on the wheel. He stayed where he was, careful in his seat as he counted the knuckles of her right hand one at a time with the pad of his thumb.

"You have my number."

"I do."

"I have yours."

"You do." She didn't look away from the road, ducking forward to peer out the tall windshield before easing off the back road and onto an ill maintained section of route 48. 

This part of New Mexico was stunning with rock outcroppings jutting through the long expanse of the plain. The trees going richer, verdant and nearing a grove instead of the singular spikes of twisted pine or the shambling reach of old weary oaks. He could almost taste the running water. He could watch the mountain slope out and sigh smooth as they drove. The dirt road that led to the cabins at the base of the mountain was almost invisible in the dark. He’d had to park somewhere off the side, Beamer tilted slightly on the grade before starting the trek to Granalith on foot through the back country. There was a low lake that was fed by the icy runoff of snow melt and in turn fed the quick running stream that ducked from one side of the road to the other as they humped over a low makeshift bridge.

Arizona was curling in on herself and he held her hand, feeling her put up the walls in the way she stretched her fingers and kicked her wrist to pluck her hand back, curling it over the steering wheel when his car caught the headlights. She pulled to a stop, leaving the engine running and he unbuckled, reluctant and tired- exhaustion starting to seep into his bones, into a sick feeling under his skin. 

"This was fun, th-"

"So," Kyle interrupted, turning to face her with the door hanging open and the overhead light a soft pale glow that cast shadows around the interior. He could see how mussed her hair was, the soft red patches on her jaw that had been rubbed raw by his stubble. He could see his kisses on her mouth. "I don't know where you are going," he continued, undaunted. He gestured between them. "And who taught you that you need to hide?"

She turned, face carefully blank and eyes sharp as she watched him. There was a wariness and a rage there that he wanted to kiss and smooth away, but he didn't have time just then. He needed time. She didn't answer, just blinked at him, eyes dark and careful in the dome light.

He sighed. "But I'm not him. You don't know me very well." He smiled at the way her eyebrows flicked up in quick involuntary agreement. "But, I _used_ to be an asshole. Big time. Very large. Make out and dip out. Frat parties and walks of shame." He shrugged, competent and aware of who he was, wearing it like loose clothes that he could stretch to let her duck under and into, caught tight against his chest and warm against his skin. "That's not this. I don't want that. I want to kiss you. I've wanted to kiss you for awhile. I want to touch you. I want to know you. I want to take you to dinner. I want to watch you go flushed on both cheap and expensive wine. I want to watch you eat creme brulee. I want to taste you. I want to hear you whisper my name in the dark." He shrugged. "Am I making myself clear? Because that's kind of important. To set the intention?"

"You know that's not what boys do." She glanced down, out the window, across the ceiling and then back to him.

"Good thing I'm not a boy." He tilted his head. "Call me. Or I will call you, like the seventy year old man I am, apparently."

She choked on a startled laugh and relaxed, careful in inches and reached to touch his mouth. She watched him kiss her fingertips and nodded once. "Text. We text now, grandpa."

"Fine."

"Fine." She darted forward, catching his mouth with a soft sweet noise that made his skin light up again. "Now go." She leaned back, wiping her mouth and waved him out the door with a small quirked smile as she watched him.

She'd actually texted him back when he sent the simple opening volley of: [sms] home safe

{sms} new phone, who dis?

Kyle had huffed a laugh at the ceiling and dropped his phone on the nightstand. It vibrated once, text flag reading simply:

{sms} go to sleep handsome. i know where to find u

**

Sheriff Michelle Valenti was a sharp edged woman with a no nonsense way of speaking that tended to leave Max wishing he was a better man even when she was giving him praise. He'd knocked two knuckles on the frame of her office, wary and bashful as he kept his white hat tucked under his arm and his worry like an over large shirt. He hadn't holstered his weapon on his utility belt, both it and his badge in his left hand as he glanced nervously at her.

"Don't stand there expecting to be kicked, Evans," she said, voice carrying easily. "Get in here and explain yourself. I was down an officer already before you decided to simply drop off the face of the planet. You better have a serious and revelatory explanation."

"Alien abduction?" He tried, voice careful as he attempted a small half smile at her, wilting at the withering glare she turned on him as she glanced up from her report work.

"Do I look like I need jokes, Evans? Is there something in my demeanor that says this job is a joke? That my position as Sheriff is funny?"

"No, ma'am." He replied, straightening and nodding a few times, earnest.

"Do I look like I am amused?"

"No, ma'am."

"You have five minutes to explain yourself before I ask for your badge and your weapon." She clicked the laptop shut, folding her arms out onto the desk and lacing her fingers expectantly. There was a pause, the air conditioning kicking on and shoving stale air into the room, ruffling the feathered fronds of her fern. She tilted her wrist, checking her watch. "Starting _now_."

Max paused, muscle in his jaw working as he let the silence settle for a moment, a ticking to his right from the wall clock as it tapped out seconds. "All I can tell you is that there was a family emergency, Ma'am." He nodded once. "My sister-" he cut off, voice cracking and he startled at the way he seemed so sincere just then, convincing as he kept speaking. He watched himself tell the sheriff about a domestic disturbance, about Noah Evans raising his hand in violence. He watched himself stand and deliver in a quiet urgent way a story that painted desperation and need. He watched her listen and felt himself reach, just a little, and startled when the world slowed, the ticking moving into half time and then slower.

This was new. This was heady and slippery edged as he paused her with a thought. He felt a small vibrant ache of triumph, of pleased hissing excitement at the possibilities that were sprawling out from this one soft edged moment caught tight between the tick of seconds.

Sheriff Valenti sat frozen at the desk, watching him with soft brown eyes and a stain of weary worry that seemed constant in the crow’s feet, the thin line of her mouth, the way her skin pulled taut over her cheekbones. She seemed severe even as the world went hazy and soft, light pulling long streaming pastels that ducked down from the fluorescent lights in the ceiling, glowed through the venetian blinds in the windows that separated her office from the rest of the deputies. Max kicked into motion, a slow amble that felt comfortable and at ease with this small imposition, just a little twist for the greater good.

He was doing the _right_ thing. He watched her, ducking his mouth next to her ear, feeling the way excitement and prickling power bubbled into his chest, filling his lungs with a delighted effervescent instinct. He felt powerful. He _liked_ it.

"_Believe me_," he heard himself whisper, words sibilant as he reached and just tilted her into acceptance. 

She was so tired. She needed the help. She would relent. Max startled and slammed back into the present- slammed back into his body. He heard his voice from the outside, trailing off in a soft apology as Sheriff Valenti blinked slowly, shook her head a little and looked at him.

The office was simple with a wide wooden desk covered with a leather protector and home to the bulky laptop that was probably two years out of date. There were two wood backed chairs set on the opposite side and a fern placed in careful light on top of a black filing cabinet behind her. The office was mostly windows, the venetian blinds rattling in the bluster of the AC. Max felt his worry slip out from under his skin and evaporate in the cool air. He was sure it had worked, uncomfortably pleased. He kept his focus on her, giving her the space to find her way back into the moment, back into her own mind after the small edit he’d made.

"Fine." She thinned her mouth. "I believe you, Evans. But you are on thin ice. One more mistake and I will have to suspend you." She looked down, checking the time on her watch again and Max could hear the wall clock again, loud like the ticking was echoing in his head, pressing against the nauseous headache that flared behind his eyes. "Understood?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

There was a pause as she simply exhaled and looked up at him, small crease between her brows before she reached, flipping the laptop back open and turning it to face him. “Good. Put your badge and your weapon on. There’s a body out near the turquoise mines that needs to be picked up, the area tented. Meet the CSI boys out there to make sure they don’t get distracted like last time. I want the whole area annotated properly. No mistakes, Evans.”

He glanced up from where he’d been slipping the badge back into the pocket just under his name tag and smiled at her. “We know anything about circumstances?”

“Just an anonymous report phoned in and a location. Escort the body to the coroner, I want a full report. The last thing this town needs is another body.”

“Another?”

“Hank Gibbons was found dead and dumped in the Wild Pony dumpster.” Sheriff Evans tilted him a look. “Which you would know if you’d shown up for work. Probably best to get moving and not remind me of your absence.” 

Max pulled his bottom lip over his teeth, running a hand through his hair as he took the pointed criticism with a small flare of anger. He could _fix_ it, but he leaned back, turning out the door and found his desk. The small succulent that Isobel had gotten him was starting to look withered, sharp points of its leaves turned up and the plump petals desiccated. He considered watering it for a moment, glancing over at the completely empty desk across from his where Cameron should be. He pulled the drawer of his desk open, snagging two pens to put in his shirt pocket and the small leather bound notepad his father had gotten him when he’d joined the force. He’d water it later, he had a murder to investigate. 

He glanced at Cameron’s empty desk again, narrowing his eyes at the complete lack of personality, papers, pens, sarcasm, and his partner. He tucked the investigation folder under his arm and rapped his knuckles against the smooth spot where she’d worn the wood glossy and soft with the way she’d rub a thumb over the left edge while she thought. It was his fault she’d lost her job. She’d been protecting him. She’d been doing what any good partner would do. She had lost her job protecting _him_ and his _secret_. Max Evans was a good man and as he glanced back to where Sheriff Valenti was sitting, head bent as she read, he made a decision.

Max Evans was going to _make it right_.

The drive out to the crime scene was arduous and oddly familiar. Max had slid on the mirrored shades halfway out to the cruiser, plugging the coordinates into the GPS and starting the menial paperwork annotation that was the largest part of his job, careful note taking and constant monitoring. He’d checked in with the comms unit and started the drive. It took about half an hour, sliding out of downtown and out into the open country roads toward the mess of abandoned mines that seemed to riddle the foothills outside the plains. It seemed that every hill, every mountain, every gulch or slab of cut out sandstone was pock marked and hollowed with caverns, wash outs, and man made mines. He turned off the road at mile marker 245 and bounced through the gully and up the ridge to rock through the lolling nearly invisible dirt road. It was the closest he’d come to riding a horse in a long gallop, the way the SUV would buck and roll over the pitted earth a long endless see saw.

The mesa started standing up on the right, picking itself up with a yawn and turning into soft foothills. This was familiar. This was something that sat just on top of a moment of fear and rage. He could feel the way his palms started to sweat, a prickle touching light clammy fingers to the back of his neck as his shoulders tensed. Max was starting to get a strong feeling of dread and deja vu, the patches of scrub brush and sage flattened here and there like it had been clipped by a car. He’d been here. He knew where he was. He pulled to a stop at the base of a scraggly path, a small flow of mud dried into a smooth slide that cut down the side of the rolling foothills. 

“Shit.” He threw the cruiser into park, staring out the front windshield and then up the side of the hill. There was a downed tree, broken by drought and time to a silvered log that sat in the middle of a clearing. Noah had sat there. Noah had sat on that log, waiting with a quiet tailored patience.

“Shit. Shit shit _shit_.” He grabbed his personal phone as he leaned out the door and half stood, ducking up to hold the top of the door as he dialed Isobel. The phone clicked over and before he could process the sound of her voice, the light arrogance of her tone he was speaking. “Iz? We have a problem.”

The line of soft mesquite along the ridge line looking at him, waiting expectantly. He could hear the sound of his heart and the way the cruiser’s engine was ticking in the soft dry cold of New Mexico in winter. Forty feet away, Noah Bracken’s body was waiting to be found.

“Max,” Isobel was saying on the other end of the line. “We always have a problem. I’m starting to thi- wait. You’re being serious?”

“Iz,” Max started, pulling his service revolver and walking carefully with one hand on the phone, the other weighted at his side, safety under his thumb as he paced forward. He glanced up, checking the ridge line again and then scanning around the vista. Someone had found the body first. Someone had called it in. Someone _knew_. “We just found Noah’s body.” 

There was a silence on the line and Max closed his eyes against the sudden sick feeling that rolled through him. It wasn’t his. Isobel’s emotions shoving at him, pushing him into a sudden wave of panic that he had to throw up quick walls against. He felt them snap into place, the cut in the flow between he and his sister sudden and refreshing. “Max?”

“I’m on it, Iz. I just need you to be ready.” He cleared his throat and turned to stare up the side of the hill, the patches of scrub looking like scabs on a barely healed wound. “Okay?”

“Okay.” She paused, a soft murmur of voices in the background before it all went muffled with the scrape of something against the microphone. “Be safe.” And there was the real Isobel, the soft care under the layers of scorn and bravado. He felt himself smile.

“Got it.” He hung up, tucking the phone into his back pocket before lifting the pistol and holding his wrist with one hand, elbows bent, as he started pacing forward quietly. The sun was smearing a watery winter white across the desert, the sagebrush a pale bluish green and cottonwoods in the distance a lank lackluster green that shuffled through each breeze. 

Max felt like he was walking in his own footsteps, each slow careful move forward mirrored in his mind by footsteps in the rain, dragging the weight behind him. He’d felt giddy then, morbid panic burbling in his skin now. The sunlight felt false, a fractured mirror of the strobing flashes of lightning that lit the way in the dark as he pulled the body behind him.

He’d dumped Noah here. He’d dumped the body face down in the mud so that no one would know what they’d done. He’d tried to leave the secret in the dark, in the night that felt so long ago. He’d felt over full, buzzing and electric. It had felt so unnecessary. It had felt like an afterthought, throwing away trash to burn.

Max had dumped Noah in the desert and forgotten to mourn. He crested the hill and found the body by smell first. The desert had not been kind, buzzing with fat black flies and swollen with rain and then frozen at the edges. It didn’t look real anymore, soggy and wet edged like rotting bread. Max choked, turning his head instinctively and covering his mouth and nose with the inside of his elbow. This was horror. This was his actions come home. He reminded himself that it was self defense. He could hear the buzzing, the slow lazy hum of it as the flies picked up in a grumpy swarm and settled again, flickering and flitting over the sag of skin slipping off flesh.

Noah wasn’t recognizable any longer, barely more than the hint of a human body, melting in the time between death and today. Clumps of hair were puddled on the ground around the flay of skull, fingers mushy and curled. The clothes the only identifiable parts. He wasn’t handsome anymore, black haired and hawkish but faded into pale bits of a person, hair gone light and brittle in the late morning light. Something had caught him and dragged his corpse, nibbling and pecking. There weren’t eyes anymore, just gaping holes in what had been a handsome face. There wasn’t a soft lipped mouth, just two rows of teeth and the wreck of a cheek.

Max stared, horrified before turning and retching into the dirt. He panted, stomach turning as the smell wandered close and then whipped off in the breeze again. His heart was loud in his ears, pounding in tick tock time, racing faster as he let the fear settle into his veins. He holstered his pistol pushing both palms against his knees where he was bent, panting in his panic. Noah Bracken was dead. Noah Bracken was a body now, rotting meat and swollen waterlogged limbs like he’d been underwater instead of dumped in the New Mexico desert. He was still wearing the soft gray suit, the black shirt he’d been so elegant in while he danced with Isobel at the opening of the Emporium. He was missing one shoe, socked foot turned out. Max pushed to his feet and stared before wetting his lips and taking off the broad brimmed hat and pushing his hair back to straight.

He settled his white hat back on his head and turned, stumbling down the side of the hill back to his cruiser to call it in. The radio crackled to life, squawking through the exchange. Max had half an hour to think. He had half an hour before the CSI team would bounce down the dirt road to park next to his cruiser. He had half an hour with the body. Max Evans was a good man. He’d _fix everything_. 

The clock was ticking. He could almost hear it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If her husband was going to have the audacity to be an evil, mind-controlling alien who tried to murder her before dying in the desert, leaving her widowed before thirty, then Isobel Evans deserved a drink. She deserved all of the drinks. The funeral home was a beautiful, white adobe building that seemed fluid and organic, the bougainvillea blooming year round in a riot of red that was kept in neat trellises. The viewing area was a large room with a raised dais topped with a podium. The carpet was a lush, mildly patterned beige with soft cream walls and deep polished wood paneling. The crowd milling in the lobby was impeccably tailored in perfect slim cut suits and neat black dresses with solemn shoes. In the lobby was a picture of her dead husband with his arm around her, smiling down at her where she gave the photographer a saucy little look. She’d tried to make sure the pictures looked like someone cared. She tried to play the part of the dutifully mourning wife. She tried to pretend the memories weren’t sitting high in her mind, overlaying every soft anecdote told to her with the sound of Noah’s voice.

If her husband was going to have the audacity to be an evil, mind-controlling alien who tried to murder her before dying in the desert, leaving her widowed before thirty, then Isobel Evans deserved a drink. She deserved all of the drinks. The funeral home was a beautiful, white adobe building that seemed fluid and organic, the bougainvillea blooming year round in a riot of red that was kept in neat trellises. The viewing area was a large room with a raised dais topped with a podium. The carpet was a lush, mildly patterned beige with soft cream walls and deep polished wood paneling. The crowd milling in the lobby was impeccably tailored in perfect slim cut suits and neat black dresses with solemn shoes. In the lobby was a picture of her dead husband with his arm around her, smiling down at her where she gave the photographer a saucy little look. She’d tried to make sure the pictures looked like someone cared. She tried to play the part of the dutifully mourning wife. She tried to pretend the memories weren’t sitting high in her mind, overlaying every soft anecdote told to her with the sound of Noah’s voice. The entire building smelled like calla lilies and Chanel no. 5. It was a parade of pearls and quiet condolences. Isobel managed to make it for ten minutes at a time before escaping to the bathroom, locking the door behind her and glaring at the beautifully polished tile floor.

The first time Noah kissed her he had tried to apologize before she’d pulled him back to her mouth with a low noise. He’d looked so surprised, eyebrows up, but mouth warm and soft against hers as he relaxed into it and pulled her close. He’d kissed her with a softer second kiss when he pulled back, smile so lovely and crooked. She had loved that he was surprised by her interest. She had loved him.

The funeral home bathroom was covered in a rich, dark navy wallpaper with a delicate floral pattern behind pale white sinks and three stalls. It was quiet here, hushed and dark. The town had pressed into the funeral home, each person reaching to take her hand. Each person pressing their grief and thoughts against her. It was loud, smearing and staining her with an agony of awareness. Here in the bathroom she didn’t have to shake hands. Here in the bathroom she was safe. Three mirrors hung in gold-leafed oval frames above the pedestal sinks, a basket of paper towels on a small wooden table next to the trash can. The stall doors hung open, waiting. Isobel glanced over, catching sight of herself in the mirror. She was red-eyed and red-nosed, pale with a smear of eyeliner at the corner of her left eye and hair mussed from its carefully curated updo. She sniffed, moving closer to thumb at the smear. She needed to look grieving, not distraught.

The first time she’d met Noah, he’d been sitting behind a mostly empty desk in a corner office at her father’s small, prestigious firm. He’d looked a bit like a kid playing at grown up, rumpled white shirt too big for his frame and badly ironed. He’d been wearing his hair too short with a terrible mustache goatee combo trying to hide his classically handsome features. He’d given her a little wave from behind the monitor on the desk and stood quickly when she’d walked in. He had a law degree in a picture frame on a filing cabinet waiting to be hung and a stack of law books that needed to be moved to the shelves.

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” she’d commented, tilting her head up at him. 

“I didn’t think a framed poster of Animal House gave quite the look of responsibility and dignity the office deserved.” He paused, wetting his lips and tucking long-fingered hands into his pockets. “What do you think?”

“Depends.” She flicked her eyes to him. “What kind of law?” She wrinkled her nose. “You’re not personal injury, are you?”

He laughed, surprised. “No, general practice. I want to help the most people possible.” He paused. “Snob.”

“It’s like that?” 

“It’s like that.”

She took two steps into the office, sliding her fingers along the edge of the desk before looking around. “I’d go with one of those posters with the kitten hanging from a branch. It’ll make you seem edgy and ironic.” She paused and looked over at where the tall, earnest man with a handsome face and terrible facial hair almost seemed like he was taking notes. “Don’t do that. I was joking.”

He raised both eyebrows and pointed at her. “I knew that.” 

“Isobel Evans.” She extended a hand.

“Noah Bracken. Nice to finally meet you.”

Isobel bought him a plant the next day and a mug that simply said: _Never Give Up_.

Earlier, Ann Evans had been bustling around her house all morning, cleaning in her absent-minded way. Isobel’s fridge was scrubbed clean, organized, and neatly labeled. Her dishes washed and put away. She’d had to stop her mother from attacking the hall closet. Isobel sat at the counter of her marble-topped island, hands curled around the mug of tea that her mother set in front of her. Phil Evans was at the funeral home, finishing the final arrangements and handling the paperwork details.

“I think you should wear the Balenciaga,” Ann Evans stated with a simple surety. She made decisions like she was walking into rooms: easily.

“I don’t want to go.” Isobel wrinkled her nose, touching light fingers to the small paper at the end of the teabag. She didn’t particularly like tea, but it gave her mother something to do that wasn’t fluttering around her. Ann Evans was a brilliant woman tucked into Chanel suits and special combination blonde designed for her by the hair stylist in Albuquerque. She had a diamond tennis bracelet that she only wore to polite functions. Today, she was wearing a slim-cut black dress and neat black heels. There wasn’t anything about her that said anything but money and care. She looked impeccable and tired. Her mom smiled softly as she circled the kitchen island and cupped Isobel’s chin, turning her to look up at her. 

“We don’t have to. Tell me right now and I will come up with something brilliant and you can stay home.” She smiled and Isobel knew she was being comforting, she knew it, but everything felt false and flat today. “But if you don’t go, you will be making a statement.” She cocked her head and Isobel felt herself frown deeply, small crease pulling between her brows that her mother kissed softly. 

“I know.” 

“Be brave, Isobel. You can do this.”

Noah had made her cookies. Noah had made her homemade salsa and heated the chips in the oven before putting them in the bowl. Noah had been the perfect height to tuck her nose against the divot at the corner of his jaw. He was significant romantic gestures and a warm partner who did the dishes. He helped fold the laundry. He’d never existed.

Their first date had been a picnic. He’d pulled up to her apartment with a second hand BMW with a convertible top that he’d pulled open and buttoned away. He’d waited at the door with a small bouquet of ranunculus - out of season and lushly beautiful. She’d startled with a smile that broke over her face, touching the thick-petaled flowers. He’d smiled back, delighted that he’d pleased her and she’d known that she would have to actually thank her father for introducing them. He’d smiled, crooked and a little unsure. “I’ve been wanting to do this for awhile,” he’d admitted.

“Oh yeah?” She’d lifted both eyebrows, home from college for the summer between her third and fourth year at UNM. She was studying pre-law. She’d made the decision to do something when Michael had been arrested again. Max was thinking about starting at the Sheriff’s Department after dropping out of school last year. He’d been unfocused, so distracted and unmoored like a ghost as he moved through their hometown. Michael had hurt himself in a drunken fight. He had messed up his hand and delayed the scholarship acceptance. She’d watched him heal and wished not for the first time that there was a way to make the town forget he’d been hurt. She wished she was strong enough to hide the truth so Max could heal him.

She’d watched Michael wince away from everyone and disappear for longer periods of time. She’d watched Max stop writing. She’d watched Michael stop smiling. She’d watched her brothers fold closed like they were boarding up an empty house.

Noah had seemed so vibrant. He’d seemed so alive and interesting. She’d sat on the blanket he spread on the ground at the vacant drive-in. “Pretty much since I first heard your voice.”

She’d blushed at the irreverent and unabashed romance of it all. She’d been such a fool.

They’d gotten married two and a half years later. She’d never told him to grow his hair. She’d never told him to shave his goatee. She’d never told him to start shopping for clothes that fit his tall, lean frame. She’d just settled against him in the evenings. She’d woken up with her hair puddled against his chest. She’d been surprised by the way he touched her. She’d been sure she would need to teach him, to push and direct. She’d been sure she would sigh blandly through sex that seemed as interesting as vanilla yogurt before sunday school.

He’d always surprised her.

She hated that about him now. She wanted to not be surprised when Max called her to explain that she would have to come identify the body. She hated that she couldn’t find any part of the man she’d loved in the sick mess of skin and bone on the table. He hadn’t looked hawkish and stunningly dark. That body had been soft, white and pale, like he’d already started fading. His black hair had seemed lank and gray, full mouth that had whispered her name and loved her most ardently was gone. She knew the suit. She had almost worn a different dress to the UFO emporium reopening until he’d slid up behind her in her bra and panties to tuck his fingertips into the lace waistband and kiss her neck. His shoulders had been perfectly fit, the soft dove grey making his eyes look nearly black, hair glossy. He looked like a silent movie actor - beautiful as Valentino - and she’d leaned back against his chest.

“I’m worried about Max.”

“Don’t worry about Maximo,” he’d responded, nose touching her hair as he held her gaze in the mirror. “He’s a smart guy. Between him and Michael, we’re going to figure this out.”

“You’re always so sure.”

He’d smiled and she hated how naive she’d been to think he’d been reassuring her. “I can do the whole insecure thing. It might be fun?”

She’d laughed, shaking her head and closed her eyes, happy in his arms. It was all a lie. Everything was a lie.

Now she was hiding in the bathroom away from the press of people who needed to see her grief. The navy wallpaper was a nice touch, she thought absently, staring at her reflection. She hated wearing her hair up. She hated the soft, careful makeup of mourning. She hated herself in black. She wanted to wear something lovely and cream, maybe a dusty rose that would make her look haunting and glowing. She wanted to scream at the crowd about her pain. She settled for wetting her lips and setting her purse on the small basket of paper towels and pulling out a bottle of acetone. Numb was better than sharp-edged and breaking. Numb was better than bleeding and wounded in front of her mother’s bridge club and her happily married friends. Numb was better than the whispers.

The nail polish remover never tasted good. It hadn’t tasted good when they’d been kids in the desert and Michael had glossed over explaining how he knew that it would work. She’d never pushed. She should have pushed. She hated how it felt like it was coating her mouth with something cold, soapy, and oddly wetter than water. She hated how it popped down her throat to clamor into her stomach and smooth outward from there. She hated that she needed it.

She was Isobel fucking Evans and she didn’t need anything. She didn’t need a dead husband. She didn’t need the sympathies of a town turned out in black. She didn’t need the soft-eyed look that Max kept giving her as he sat next to the love of his god damned life.

Isobel had felt loved. It wasn’t reckless or wild. It didn’t feel the way Max had longed for Liz after high school. It didn’t feel the way Michael went electric and wild some nights. Isobel had just wanted something that felt like tucked corners and velvet. She didn’t want it to feel buzzy and electric. She told herself she was pragmatic.

Turns out, she’d just been a hostage.

She wet her fingertips in the sink, smoothing the hair around her face and stood, hands against the lip of the sink. Her gaze caught on her wedding rings. The diamonds sparkled in the low light, brilliant like stars set in platinum - the dark navy walls making them shine. Noah had trembled when he touched her hands and said his vows. She remembers the way his eyes had just held hers, simple and open. He’d been stunning in a black tux. He’d been gut-punch handsome and _hers_.

Their wedding had been the event of the year, permits in place to close down parts of downtown. The whole central gazebo painted with a new coat of white and covered in desert roses, ribbons, and her impeccable taste. The white rows of wooden folding chairs all annotated with names, cards, flowers, and flawless planning. Her mother had worn a deep dusty rose, her father a tux. Max had stood next to Noah and she’d been so close to tears when she saw that Michael had put himself into a suit and shown up. He’d been drifting further and further away, pushing farther out into the lonely stretches of the desert. Max had his hair slicked into neat, dark waves. Noah was freshly shaved, the softer pale line of a new haircut sitting just above his collar. 

She should have been paying attention to the way everyone was looking at her, backless lace dress hugging her curves, but she’d locked eyes with him and hadn’t been able to look away. She wonders now if that was love or control.

Max and Michael had managed to stay friendly through the reception. Max and Michael had stayed on separate sides of the venue. She’d watched Michael pound through shot after shot before walking easily across the dance floor. He’d tapped Noah on the shoulder and smiled that new, insouciant smile he’d been wearing lately. His hair was a wild mess of curls and he’d looked sharp-edged and sad, but he was here. He was _here_ and Isobel had been so happy. She’d slipped out of the quick twirl Noah had spun her into and caught herself against Michael’s arms. He’d smelled like sun-warmed work under the crisp starch of a pressed suit shirt. He hadn’t even winced when she’d laid her hand against the one that had been mangled in the bar brawl that broke his hand and his future.

“Hey,” he’d whispered, good hand falling to the small of her back as he watched her. He always looked like he was one step back from himself those days, a wall between him and the world. She hated it. She hated this new layer of defense on him. But he was _here_, so she’d smiled down at him, taller than him in heels like always.

“You came.”

“It’s important to you.” He’d shrugged, wetting his lips. They’d moved together easily, the same dance she’d taught him for prom. He’d spent a month practicing. He always remembered those sorts of things. There had been dark circles under his eyes and he’d shaved a day ago, stubble a dark shadow over his jaw. He was still her Michael. He was still brilliant and kind, despite everything. She wasn’t scared of him; she never had been. He’d watched her, gaze level as they moved around the wooden dance floor. “You love him?” 

“I do.”

“Then I’m happy for you.” He’d nodded and folded her close. They hadn’t needed to talk. They hadn’t needed anything more than a slow dance that swayed them around the wood floor to a sad, soft melody as the town watched. She would always be in his corner and the town could go fuck itself if they thought for a second that would ever change.

“Mich-”

“Not tonight, Iz. Okay?”

“Okay.” She’d leaned back, watching his face, and nodded as the song came to an end. He pushed onto tiptoe, kissing her forehead, and settled back. 

“Gotta go, but you look incredible.”

“I always look incredible.”

“True.” He’d smiled, but it never reached his eyes. “Some things are just true no matter what, huh?”

She’d watched him walk away. She’d watched him shrug out of the suit jacket and duck out the door before turning back to Noah and the feel of his smile so soft against hers. She wondered how she’d never known it was a lie. She wondered about the way Noah had held her so close and careful as they danced. She wondered at the way he’d been so gentle with the inordinate amount of buttons on her dress. She wondered at the way he’d peeled her out of it and hit his knees - reverent and stunned as he laid gentle hands at the dip of her waist. 

Noah had breathed her name when he moved in her. He breathed love and wonder as she’d pulled him close. He’d breathed like she was his whole world when she wrapped her arms and hitched her thighs around his hips. He would count the knobs of her spine in the dark after. He would touch the dimples at the small of her back. He would smooth a warm, dry palm over her skin. He was always hungry for her even in little tastes. Noah Bracken had been a good man who loved her. He’d been a good man so worried about loving her correctly. Noah Bracken never existed.

“Did you influence me? Did you make me love you?” He’d looked so angry, so confused as he stood in the center of their living room. She’d wanted to stand and touch him. She’d wanted to catch his hands and put them on her face, over her heart. She’d wanted to gentle him back to the man who wasn’t uncertain of how she’d loved and needed him. “Did I even pick this sweater?”

“God, Noah, no. I would _never_ pick that sweater.”

She wondered if she would have picked him. She wondered if she’d ever had a choice. She’d been his since she was a little girl screaming in the dark. She’d been a puppet. Nothing was real. 

Their bed had an upholstered headboard and a small night stand with one special drawer. She’d gotten used to sleeping on the right side, the left closest to the window and his side of the closet. She’d gotten used to being the one to reach over in the night to turn the light off. She’d gotten used to falling asleep with the slow, rich sound of his breath. She’d gotten used to the thoughtful notes he would leave her, the little I love you’s posted around their house. She’d gotten used to the thoughtful texts in the middle of the night.

[sms] Work thing- had to go and meet with a client. Don’t worry and don’t wait up.  
[sms] I love you more than you could ever understand  
[sms] I’ll find my way home to you

She’d read them, the light of her phone casting blue and white shadows around their bedroom before flicking back to dark. She’d been so pleased that he’d been so thoughtful. She’d started going to wine nights with the ladies on Thursdays while he did pro-bono work at Ranchero Nights at the Wild Pony. She’d loved that he was a good man.

She’d loved a lie. 

“You are the dumbest bitch,” she told her reflection, voice going round-edged and thick-tongued as she considered another hit of acetone. She didn’t even startle at the knock on the door, wobbling between here and icily unaware. The small space in the bathroom was hers right now. It was quiet and separated from the crowds touching polite fingers to the closed casket. She didn’t want to stand at the front of the lobby and take the condolences handed to her. There was enough pity in the lobby to drown her.

“Iz,” Max’s voice was low and concerned, echoing in her head as a slight delay from where he was on the other side of the door. 

“Go away.” She could feel him roll his eyes like he was already standing in the room. She wanted to shove him and settled for smashing the mirror in front of her with an angry errant thought, her face splintering and spider webbing from the small, dull pulse of power. 

“Iz. You know I can’t do that.”

“Just open it, Max.”

“Michael-”

The lock spun and the door swung open as Michael handed Max a flat look and waved him into the bathroom. Max was in his only suit, matched by Michael in the one he’d borrowed for the occasion. She recognized her Father’s second best black and sighed. “What part of ‘go away’ wasn’t clear?” she asked.

“Oh, did you actually expect us to listen to that?” Michael drawled, following behind Max and closing the door behind them. The women’s restroom was small, but it was private.

“Iz,” Max’s voice was low and concerned. “What do you need?”

She took a moment; it was too late. She couldn’t be numb. She couldn’t be numb when her heart was broken and she was tired of pretending to be strong. “I want my life to not be a lie.”

**

Kyle Valenti tugged the sleeves of his shirt tight under the cuff of his suit jacket. He’d picked the soft wool, rolled shoulder, with picked stitch collar and double darting on the back. He looked spectacular and he knew it, but he wasn’t paying attention to the subtle, hungry glances being tossed his way. He’d come to the funeral for two reasons: appearances and information.

The entryway was shaded, the double doors a soft worn walnut with crisp, polished brass kick plates. Once inside, the press of bodies and air conditioning fought for dominance, settling into a slight mugginess that passed once he moved into the lobby proper. He spotted his mother where she was talking idly with the Mayor and then scanned the room to pick out the people he’d come to see. Liz was walking across the space, her hair up in a neat bun, and dressed in a black pencil skirt and matching textured blouse. She looked professional and subdued, the murmurs of the crowd slipping around her as she eased towards the other side of the lobby. Kyle glanced to where she was headed and nodded once, finding the other person he’d come to see. He started in the direction of the bathrooms, catching Maria Deluca’s gaze as he went with a curt nod to indicate she join them.

Alex Manes was standing in a soft-edged parade rest near the bathroom, eyes scanning the crowd before pausing on where Kyle was working his way towards him. Kyle watched Alex nod a few greetings and mutter a soft apology to a gray haired woman who frowned darkly at him before turning away from the bathroom and looking around for the second set of bathrooms mirrored on the other side of the viewing hall. Liz greeted him a moment later, a brief hug followed by a small, sad smile and then a few words as they both looked at the closed bathroom door. Kyle slid next to them, pausing with a smile to shake the hand of the city councilman who said hello and asked after his mother. He and Alex played nice for a minute before the older man folded back into the crowd. Maria edged into the space he left behind and Kyle blew out a quick breath.

“We have a problem.”

Alex didn’t react beyond the small jump in the muscles of his jaw. “What kind of problem?”

Kyle turned, tilting his head and made sure Alex was looking at him. “I’m... I’m not sure? But, I don’t think that was Noah they found.”

“_What?_” The stunned silence that followed sat for a few uneasy seconds.

“Kyle, are you _sure_?” Maria's voice was hushed but clear as she reached absent fingers to touch the bathroom door. Her eyes closed for a moment before flicking back to him. 

“You have to be sure.” Liz had that stubborn set to her jaw that nearly mirrored the flat line of Alex's mouth.

“It’s just a hunch.” Kyle frowned, nodding a few times, and touched Alex’s elbow with a quick hand, ducking forward to talk in a quiet mumble that wouldn’t carry past the circle of their shoulders. “I don’t know what happens after they die. There might be something strange about their physiology-”

“The samples I studied show a base-level cell structure similar to ours, but nothing that would suggest anything significantly divergent. I’d need to see more on the DNA coding.”

“Liz.” Kyle lifted his eyebrows. “Here’s the problem. Everything that should have been an identity marker was... it wasn’t right.” He leaned back, widening his eyes. “I didn’t get a long look, but I was able to get my hands on the initial report and some of the pictures the coroner took before-” There was a loud crash behind the door Alex was loosely guarding. Kyle paused, leaning back and glancing over Alex’s and Liz’s shoulders to the bathroom door at a swell of muffled voices. He blinked, eyebrows shooting up as Alex tilted his head, nonplussed and waiting.

“Isobel.” It was a simple explanation.

“Max and Michael are with her,” Liz finished.

“Right.” Kyle glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention to their quick huddle. The viewing was elegant and understated, the hall left mostly unadorned with two candles flickering next to the closed casket. There was a picture of Noah Bracken, black and white and in three-quarter profile smiling down at something out of frame, posted under a ring of delicate white calla lilies and fragrant stargazer lilies. The bouquet on the casket a matching spray that covered the lid and draped longingly over the sides. The music was soft and orchestral, sad but not without the slight lift of hope and recovery. Kyle took a moment to appreciate what Ann Evans had managed in the three short days from discovery, to hushed autopsy, to funeral. The official report was a lightning strike in the desert. The official report he’d watched signed by one Dr. Jane Holden.

Yesterday, Nurse Gough had skidded breathlessly into the on-call room, strawberry blonde hair swinging behind her as she grabbed the edge of the door to help break her momentum. She’d paused, tugging the bright blue scrub top covered in a pattern of stars and moons straight before whispering his name to catch his attention. Kyle had glanced up from the table covered in charts he was late on, blinking at her in confusion. “She’s here.”

“Who’s here?”

“The one you said to tell you if she came in.”

“Cyd. I have been up for thirteen hours. Please don’t ask me to guess.”

She’d been his chart nurse and right hand almost since he’d returned for his residency at Roswell General. She frowned at him, widening her eyes and tilting her head down the hall. “The _medical examiner_. I told you she was real.”

Kyle stuttered upright, clapping a hand to her shoulder in thanks as he hurried down the hall, sneakers squeaking on the freshly mopped tile. There was a small, round woman with short-cropped silver hair, wire rimmed glasses, and a thin mouth signing paperwork at the check in window. She was somewhere between fifty and seventy. She was the sort of papery pale of post-menopausal women - grayed out and faded with soft jowls. She wore thick-soled orthotics with velcro fastenings, straight-legged black slacks with an elastic waist, a white shirt, and a pale lavender cardigan with shiny tortoiseshell buttons matched by the long chain of a string of multi-colored beads. She was completely nondescript and practically invisible in a crowd. She glanced up at Kyle when he came to a stop next to her. “Dr. Holden?”

“That’s my name,” she muttered, clipping the badge to her cardigan and pointing at it without breaking into a smile. “And you are?”

“Dr. Va-” he paused, coughing to cover his sudden realization. The woman raised eyebrows at him, blinking at him with an unamused, brown gaze. “Sorry.” He smiled, attempting charm, and held out a hand. “Dr. Vaughn. Surgery Resident.”

The woman looked at his hand and then back up at him. “How nice.” She nodded once, turning and started down the hall toward the elevator to the sublevel that held the morgue and the laundry. “If you’ll excuse me, Dr. Vaughn.” She had a rolling gait, like one leg was slightly shorter than the other, slinging her right leg forward before a shorter step with the left. 

“Wait!” He found himself moving, following her down the hall and looking down at her when she heaved a deep sigh. “I have a few questions about the body we found.”

“You looked at the body?” She asked, glancing up at him sharply, eyes narrowing and mouth flattening into a thin line. 

Kyle straightened, glancing around. “I was the admitting ER attendant. Yes. The marking on the body was strange and I wanted to ask-”

“Cause of death was lightning strike. That can cause strange markings or burns on the body.” She nodded, stopping in front of the wide elevator door and pressed the button. “You do understand that HIPAA privacy extends for 50 years after death, correct? What you may have seen is confidential and must not be repeated.” She muttered the words like she was repeating by rote. “I’d hate for you to have consequences for a small violation. Have a nice day, Dr. _Vaughn._” It was a dismissal and veiled threat. Kyle almost argued, but the elevator dinged, sliding open, and she stepped in, turning to watch him with the same flat brown stare as she pressed the button for the basement. She glanced down as the door started to close, pulling open the file and signing it absently before she’d even seen the body.

The funeral was planned in a hurry, the body decomposing at an alarming rate. Kyle glanced over to the dais, casket closed. He turned, leaning a shoulder against the wall next to the bathroom and attempting casual. Maria and Liz moved automatically to take a half step forward. “I don’t have enough information.” He wanted to pluck a glass of water from the tray of a caterer walking at a solemn pace through the crowd, but just sucked his teeth and looked around the group. 

“What kind of information do you need?” Liz asked. 

“This is all well and good,” Maria muttered. “But what are we going to tell _them_?” She cast a serious look at the closed doors before looking back at all of them. “That seems important, too.”

Another slow, uneasy silence fell and Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose. “I need-”

“You need the files.” Alex closed his eyes when the realization hit, ducking his chin before giving his head a small shake. “Fuck.”

“I need the files.”

“Don’t bring this up yet.” Alex moved out of the loose military stance, tucking one hand into the pocket of his slacks. He was dressed for the occasion in a simple black suit that fit well. He shifted his weight, the polished black shoes silent on the beige carpet. They were all a matched set on the edges of the crowd that was starting to settle, sitting and checking the time and the programs for the start time for the service. The room was full of mourning. It was a sea of black and bowed heads. He tried not to fidget while Alex thought, careful march of thoughts nearly visible in the way his face went quiet and centered. “Not until you’re sure.”

“I’m pretty damn sure, Alex.”

“Sure enough to put everyone in danger again? You know how Michael and Max are with her. You think she’s going to respond lightly to learning that Noah might still be out there?” Alex turned and pinned Kyle with a steady dark gaze. “We still haven’t found Harlan or Flint. We are flying blind. I’m not ready to risk it.”

“I used a fake name.”

“That will last only as far as a google search of the hospital staff, Kyle. It’s enough for a momentary reprieve, but based on what I saw of that compound, this is way bigger than just my father. This is bigger than our families’ legacy.” Alex ducked closer, voice a low murmur. “Hunter is covering the funeral, but we don’t know what is out there. We don’t know what we’re up against. They have decades of research and development. That’s a hell of a head start.”

Maria lifted a hand, silver bangles sliding with a soft noise down her wrist while she waited for everyone’s attention. “She’s a mind reader. You won’t be able to keep this a secret.” She sighed, dropping her hand and folding her arms over her chest as she looked at all of them. “It’s better to get all the information out all at once. As someone who was kept in the dark, let me tell you, it doesn’t actually help and it definitely didn’t make me feel safe.” She paused, mouth twisting in a small glare. “And definitely didn’t help any trust issues I had. Isobel has been lied to enough. Let’s not double down on those mistakes. She needs to start trusting again, best give her a solid place to start.”

“Maria’s right. She’s strong. She can handle this.” Liz nodded once. “I can look at the samples of Noah’s blood I collected the night at the UFO opening. If they’re still viable, they might help?”

Kyle leaned back slightly, tilting his head, and smiled at Liz. “That would be perfect. I knew you were the smart one.” He blew out a breath and turned to hold Alex’s gaze. “Let us help. There’s something here. I’m going to look.”

“I don’t like involving all of you. I don’t want to risk it.”

“We’re pretty involved,” Liz muttered, tone flat and teasing as she arched a telling brow at Alex. 

“I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”

“What you want and what happens don’t often match, Alex.”

“That... is not reassuring. I can’t lose _you_.” 

Kyle felt the way those words sounded soft and scared under the flat tone. He felt the trust Alex handed them so casually, and it sparked a slow pride in his pulse. “We’ll be careful.” He let a grin skid around his mouth, reaching into his interior jacket pocket to pull out his phone as the bathroom door opened. He glanced over, catching the way Michael Guerin’s eyes narrowed at him as he looked between where Kyle and Alex were standing close together. 

“What’s going on?”

“Liz?” Max glanced at the group, eyes catching on where Liz was staring at him with a determined look. Maria looked resolute and Alex resigned. Kyle nodded. “That’s my cue.” He paused, grin going wicked and pointed at Alex. “Call me later.”

Alex rolled his eyes and glanced over to Michael. Kyle felt the teasing smile go genuine at the way Michael reached to touch the curl of Alex’s fingers softly as he passed. Max Evans followed, one arm careful around his sister’s shoulders as she shook herself quietly and lifted her chin to face the crowd. The silent cue rippled through the room and everyone started to take their seats. Alex followed Michael when he split off from the twins and sat in the second to last row, respectful of the family seating and his standing in the community. Liz squeezed Max’s hand and settled next to her father one row back from the Evans’ family. Maria seemed to haunt the back row for a moment until Isobel turned, looking directly at her and pleading with a small twist of her mouth before turning back to front. Kyle watched Maria lift her head, square her shoulders, and walk carefully down the outside of the row of chairs to settle just behind Isobel, shoulder to shoulder with Liz. 

This time when the caterer passed, Kyle snagged a glass of water, sipping as he thumbed open his texts and tapped out a quick question: 

[sms] ETA? 

Kyle watched the three dots pop up on the screen, rippling as someone typed. 

{sms} close. Miss me?

[sms] you gonna hurt me if I say no?  
[sms] i’ll save you a glass of wine

{sms} debatable. Maybe three hours out.   
{sms} fuck wine. Tequila.  
{sms} and queso.

Kyle tucked his phone away and moved down the aisle to sit next to his mother. She glanced over at him and smiled. “You look nice.”

“Suit still fits.”

“Good.” She paused, picking a bit of nonexistent lint from his shoulder. “Someday you’ll get to wear it somewhere happy.”

He reached up, taking her hand between his and squeezing gently. “Someday.”

**

Rosa was daydreaming about being flat on her back on the roof of the Crashdown. It had been a long day. An exceptionally long day. She was tired. Her back hurt, but she refused to get different shoes, liking the way she was rebuilding the callouses on the backs of her calves where the high top of her boots rubbed. She'd spent the day serving nothing but tourists. She'd started remembering the slight tonal difference between Chicago and Milwaukee. She could pick out five different versions of a midwestern accent and spot an out of towner at five paces. The Crashdown was a ghost town today - the thought making her smile more than it should as she collected the salt shakers to refill. 

The funeral had left the town cracked open, vulnerable to outsiders.

Rosa was still learning the register. She didn't like it. She liked having a paper notepad with the special way of writing the orders. She liked the old school feel of it. She didn't like the new touch screen model or that it printed tickets with a clatter in the back when she pushed an order through. She didn't like that the buttons were all a uniform blue and that it prompted her at each interval for the side, the selection, the way the customer wanted their eggs. "It's an abomination," she told the only counter customer, a middle aged woman tucking into a plate of pancakes, as she tapped slowly through the order, chewing on her bottom lip and narrowing her eyes at it.

"I told you that you can use tickets like your sister does, Miss Rosa," Grover muttered from the pass through window. He was pushing seventy, a bony black man with gnarled knuckles and scattered grease burns on his wrists. He had gone completely white while she was gone, rheumy-eyed and still grinning with the wide gap in his front teeth. He'd just collected her up with a soft sigh and hugged her. He still smelled like french fries and french toast. She'd called him Frenchie as a kid and he never let her forget.

"I'll figure it out," she muttered, tapping the final note about cutting the brown lacing off the edges of the over easy eggs out for the customers in booth five. They were out of towners and, like most people, wildly particular about how their eggs were cooked.

She'd spent most of the shift shoving plates of pancakes at the delighted older woman who seemed determined to eat her weight in churro pancakes and cherry coke. The woman was round like a bird in winter. She hunkered down on a stool at the counter under short-cropped silver hair, wire framed glasses, straight nose, and a thin, colorless mouth. She smiled widely, teeth straight and unstained with crows feet that wrinkled in delight around hooded brown eyes. She was nondescript in every way except for the fourth plate of pancakes that she was eating with a gusto usually reserved for the exceptionally high.

Rosa was utterly charmed, flopping onto the stool next to her. "I take it you've never had Churro pancakes before?"

The woman looked over at her, syrup gathered at the edge of her mouth as she shook her head, spearing another bite to shovel into her mouth. She was wearing black slacks, a white blouse, and a pale blue cardigan that washed out her fair skin and showcased a few age spots on the backs of her hands. "They're delicious."

"Family recipe."

"What does that mean?" The woman blinked at her, the question odd but Rosa had been asked everything from her age to where they sourced their eggs, and whether or not the pot roast was vegan. She had no idea what gluten was or why everyone was suddenly allergic to it.

"My Dad made it up? I think? Maybe his mom made it for him." Rosa paused, chewing on the edge of her thumbnail as she kicked to spin once, the stool squeaking slightly as she rotated. "You know, I never asked."

"You should find out." The woman nodded once, taking a long swallow of Cherry Coke and pointing at her with a fork. "Do you know how to make them?"

"I used to." 

"Can you teach me?"

"Um, I think it's a health code violation to bring you to the kitchen." She paused. "Grover!"

"What Miss Rosa?" Grover popped his head into the window, book in hand. The shift was impossibly dead, barely more than fifty heads all day with the lunch crowd thinning out to the last three tourists tucked into booth five and pancake lady at the counter. Grover had been reading his favorite romance novel again. Rosa was glad that some things never changed.

"Can we teach her how to make the churro pancakes?"

"We could, but then we'd have to kill her. I don't much feel like burying a body tonight."

The woman straightened, eyes narrowing as she focused on where Grover shook his head. "Please don't do that."

Rosa put her foot down, skidding to a stop to lean backwards against the counter and glance over at the lady. "He's kidding. It's in poor taste considering where the entire town is. But he's kidding." She paused, glancing over her shoulder as Grover sat back down on the stool in the kitchen. "I'm pretty sure he's kidding."

The woman didn't seem to believe her, glancing around before slowly starting to eat again, warily watching the pass-through window. She'd been at the counter for almost three hours, a marathon of gluttony that Rosa had to admit she was vaguely disgusted by and utterly impressed with.

"What do you do?" she finally asked, the boredom of a dead shift and the long contact with the woman making her more talkative than normal. Rosa had always been the more user-surly model of diner waitress, preferring the wise cracks and sarcastic persona with perfect service than the overly sweet, remember-your-kid’s-birthday style Liz had adopted. Rosa would throw herself into the booth with the customers, blinking at them until they started ordering. The trick, she'd found, was to make sure the service was perfect. If she anticipated everything then they couldn't complain, even if she was sassy. She liked it that way, single-serving friends that she could turn and burn to a profit. This woman was an exception. Rosa hated sitters, but when the only other option was boredom, sitters would do in a pinch.

"Today?" The woman blinked at her, the wire framed glasses holding a heavy prescription - the lenses thick and making her gaze owlish.

Rosa tilted her head. "As opposed to yesterday? Yes?"

"Today I am a medical examiner." She shrugged. "Tomorrow? Who knows."

"Right on. Keep your options open, I like it." She grinned. "Today I'm a diner waitress. Tomorrow? Maybe I'll be a designer." She tongued her canine, twisting around. "Or maybe a chef."

The woman pointed at her with the clean tines of her fork. "Chef is good. I like food."

"I can see that."

The woman grinned at her, quick and delighted, before glancing over her shoulder to the front door when it opened. Rosa squashed the internal annoyance - they were technically still open for another hour. Another customer meant more money. She closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath before opening them again, meaning to toss the woman a bright, cheery smile before hopping to her feet to grab menus for the new customers, but the smile froze at the wide-eyed blank look the woman had turned to the front. She looked scared and defiant at the same time, chewing faster.

“I don’t like having to come find you,” a man’s voice said, a quiet baritone that carried easily through the space under the current playlist of songs Rosa hadn’t heard yet on the jukebox. When she glanced back, there was only an impression of height and dark hair, the man obscured between doors and glass. “This is not the hospital.”

“I’m _eating_,” the woman replied, tone truculent as she straightened and squared her jaw. “You could try it sometime. Eating for fun.” She turned back to her pancakes, the prior flash of fear smoothed away as she cut another bite. 

“Maybe later.” 

“We do have food here-” Rosa dropped her toe, spinning the stool and stuttering to a stop as she narrowed her eyes at the tall, lean man who was ducking around the hand-written menu and into the diner proper. She could feel herself trying to gape; he was handsome and young. She blinked once and kicked to a stand, grabbing a menu and pointing it at him. “Apparently, the pancakes are divine.” 

He was a little over six feet with thick black hair cut short and close and cowlicked, golden skin shadowed with the hint of facial hair, dark eyes, hawkish nose, and slim angular face marred by two scars, one cutting over the bridge of his nose and the other through his left eyebrow. She found herself staring, his lashes were thick and dark, mouth supple and arrogant. He was wearing a nondescript outfit, dark jeans, boots, gray t-shirt, and black zipped jacket with a few pockets. It draped nicely, a little bit defiant, a little bit military, a lot like he was angry and competent. A lot like he dovetailed neatly into everything that was her type. He looked young, maybe twenty two, and Rosa wet her lips, mouth dropping open slightly as she stared.

Rosa held his gaze as he visibly took stock of her at the same time, dark gaze flicking around the diner, pausing to note the guests in the back booth before returning to her. His mouth quirked and he narrowed his eyes slightly. “We don’t have time. I apologize. We have somewhere to be.” He wet his lips and Rosa felt herself flush because she was staring. “Not that I wouldn’t want to stay. And eat.” He paused without breaking their locked gaze, lifting a long-fingered hand to scratch idly at his temple. “For fun.” She was staring at this man who looked sharp and dangerous who was staring back at her. He took a half step closer, watching her with those quiet, dark eyes.

She wanted to be out of uniform, out of the ridiculous headband with its bouncing alien antenna. She wanted to be sheathed in black jeans and black boots and black bra. She wanted him to see her as a girl, sharp and lovely. 

He kept his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, tilting his head around her to where the woman was scraping the plate with the edge of her fork, eyes never leaving hers. “Ro-,” he cut off, taking a half step forward like he was going to get closer before stopping. “_Jane._ Let’s go.”

“Fine. _Fine_.” The woman dropped her fork and knife onto the plate with a clatter, heaving up from the stool and brushing past Rosa. “The pancakes were delicious. Thank you. I’ll be back.” She was muttering angrily to herself, digging into the purse she was slinging across her round frame for money. The young man shook his head, pulling a hand from his pocket and snagging a wallet from the back of his jeans. He looked at Rosa and there was a moment where Rosa almost waved him off, but she wasn’t stupid and she _was_ broke.

“I’ll check you out.” She flushed, clearing her throat. “I mean, you can pay.” She pointed at the register. “There. You can pay me.” She closed her eyes. “You can pay the tab at the register,” she tried to sound casual and not flustered. She was failing and she knew it. 

When she opened them, he was two steps closer and she had to tilt her head back slightly to look up at him. He reached, fingers slipping against her wrist as he turned her hand, pressing a crisp bill against her palm. “Thank you,” he said, voice low and close. Rosa swallowed, noting absently that his fingers were warm and dry, touch electric. She was aware of how close he was, the way he smelled faintly of clean clothes and soap, the hint of mint and something smoky and metallic. The round woman, Jane, cleared her throat loudly, both eyebrows shooting up from behind the wire rims of her glasses. 

“Come on, November.” She hitched the purse to resettle it. “I want to change. This one’s hot all the time.”

November smiled, tilting his head like he and Rosa were conspirators. Rosa thrilled at his touch, skin shocking bright and aware at the small stroke of thumb over the bone in her wrist. “_Now_ she wants to go.” Rosa heard herself make a soft noise of question, flush blooming over her chest and pushing into her ears and cheeks. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“No problemo.” 

Rosa was mortified, uncool and going redder by the second as his smile went crooked. November turned quickly, collecting the medical examiner up and herding her toward the door. There was a thump as he seemed to trip, glancing back at Rosa and trying to pull open the push only door. He blinked, looking down at his hand like it had betrayed him as Jane burst into delighted peals of teasing laughter. He glanced back, catching Rosa’s eye once more as the woman trundled under his extended arm and out into the afternoon sunshine. He gave a small wave and Rosa felt herself tossing a small, jaunty salute back. 

He was gone and Rosa finally exhaled, repeating _no problemo_ to herself like a question as she covered her face. “Oh my god.”

**

Maria DeLuca wasn't sure why she'd been pulled to the front row of the funeral. She wasn't sure why Isobel had waited for her at the curb. She wasn't sure why she'd walked past where nearly thirty cars were lined up along the curb with purple procession flags flapping in the breeze. The crowd was quiet, hushed, and she could hear her heels clicking on the asphalt of the parking lot to where Isobel Evans stood on the sidewalk looking stunning and angry in a simple black dress and London Fog trench coat. Maria DeLuca hadn't asked any questions, just reached out and let Isobel take her hand, squeezing tight as she took a shaking breath.

"It's okay to be angry."

"Good, because I am."

"Make it look like grief. You can do this." Maria tipped her head to the side, holding the hazel gaze as Isobel opened her eyes and looked down at her. "No one plays the part like you."

"You're not allowed to insult me at a funeral, DeLuca."

Maria smiled a little, gratified when Isobel's mouth tilted to the side in response. "Watch me."

Isobel turned, grip tight as she started walking. The crowd parted for her, schooling like fish away from a predator. Maria was swallowed up, the sea of mourners in shades of black and dark gray. The walkway was clean, freshly swept, and leading across the graveyard to where a white tent had been erected over a stunningly bright green astroturf swatch. New Mexico had forgotten to mourn, the sun bright and the sky a beautiful, clear blue. There were three rows of white folding chairs around the hole in the ground as a small, round sparrow of a pastor waited. Ann and Phil Evans were sitting in the first row, five chairs set aside for the family. Max Evans was scanning the crowd, tall and dark haired. He was looking for Liz, face going soft when he found her. Maria slowed, ready to fall back and fall into place with the rest of the crowd but Isobel Evans simply kept hold and kept walking. “Don’t you dare.”

“People will talk,” she hissed back.

“Let them.” Isobel turned and stared at Noah’s casket. The black was shiny, polished with beautiful brass handles and simple, clean-cut lines. The spray of lillies had moved from the parlour to the grave site - the scent sweet and lingering like good perfume.

The crowd fell into place, Max to Isobel’s left, Maria to her right, with Ann and Phil at the start of the front row. Maria found Alex across the crowd. He flicked his eyebrows at her, silently questioning the same thing she’d wondered herself, but his gaze tripped over her shoulder and she knew the moment Michael Guerin had settled just behind them in the second row. She glanced back and he didn’t even look at her, left hand wrapped in a black bandana and hat on the seat behind him. His curls danced and Max nodded at him once. Isobel didn’t look away from the casket, fingers like iron in Maria’s hand. 

“Are we friends now?” Maria had asked her over their third shot of tequila as they sat on a blanket spread over the dirt floor in the cavern of the turquoise mine. Max had floated silent in the glow, but Isobel had her eyes closed where she leaned against the cave wall. They’d been setting up the equipment, assessing the gold shimmering layout of the console. It had seemed so fraught - caught up and breathless in the rush to bring him back, to wake him up. She’d done the only thing she knew how to do when life was too loud and too fast. She’d brought a bottle of tequila and held it out in silent question one night. Isobel Evans had certain looks she was learning. She wasn’t inscrutable. She wasn’t cold. She was protected and terrified and Maria had wanted to take a moment just the two of them. She’d wanted to give her a moment of quiet. 

Isobel had swigged directly from the bottle, throat working as she’d considered. She was beautiful in the dark, lit by the soft, iridescent glow from the pods. “We could be,” she answered, handing the bottle back.

Maria had laughed, ducking her head, and settled next to her, shoulder to shoulder, resting her head. She almost missed the next whispered words, but the heat of breath against her scalp and the low alto of Isobel’s voice was undeniable. 

“It’s quiet with you.”

She had stayed still, stuck in the indecision of wanting to see the sincerity on Isobel’s face and wanting to let the silence settle soft in the half light. It lengthened like shadows, and Maria had set the bottle aside and simply let the moment exist. She’d found herself wanting in the gentle glow: wanting to know these facets of Isobel, to know the woman who existed just under the mask, the woman she was just starting to see.

Isobel was in full makeup and full mask today, mouth hard and eyes sharp as she stared straight ahead. Maria could hear the muffled muttering of the crowd, the quiet concern as Ann Evans turned to her husband and then leaned past, reaching a hand out to touch Michael’s shoulder lightly.

“I’m so glad you could come, Michael dear.” 

Maria looked behind her, catching the way Michael stilled, glanced down, and then smiled at Ann Evans. “Wouldn’t miss it, Mrs. Evans.” He nodded at Phil Evans, face gone carefully neutral. “Sir.”

Phil Evans was a sober-faced man with salt and pepper hair who wore an expensive looking black suit that was expertly cut across his broad shoulders. He’d gone a little paunchy in his age but still had a powerful presence. He kept his hair neat, wore horn-rimmed glasses, and a simple gold wedding band. He didn’t fall much to flashy, but wore his wealth and upbringing easily. He kept his wife close, a warm hand at the small of her back. 

“Glad you came,” he said simply, turning to look past Michael to the crowd slowly filling in and gathering close. The rows of seats filling with Noah’s coworkers and a veritable who’s who of the Roswell elite. The dismissal was obvious, but Isobel was important, and if she’d chosen to surround herself with riffraff during her moments of grief, then it would be easy to explain in the long run. The Evans were good at spin.

Her mother’s bridge club filed past, doting for a moment with saccharine smiles and freshwater pearls before kissing Ann on both cheeks and smiling coquettishly at Max. One lady, a tanned, fit woman in her late fifties with pale, bottle-blonde hair and neat, french-tipped fingernails, paused to let her gaze slink around Michael’s shoulders before she clicked to her seat in her sensible heels.

Isobel cleared her throat lightly, tipping her head back to scream, throaty and harsh as the world simply seemed to slip into a soap bubble, the light blurring and stretching around to coil against the coffin, and then glow through the small holes in the tent roof. Everything paused, the anger and heartache fading as Isobel's voice gave out, panting in the soft-colored world half a step from reality. She wiped her eyes with a quick thumb and huffed a breath to settle back into herself. She never let go of Maria's hand. “I’d hear them talk about him at night sometimes. They worried about his relationship with me. His influence on Max.” She wet her lips and shook her head. “Always so worried about what other people think.”

“Iz-”

“It’s so loud,” Isobel continued, exasperated and fraying. “I just.”

Maria looked around, everyone paused in what they were doing except Isobel who simply took three quick steps forward to place both hands on the casket. “Isobel.”

“Don’t _Isobel_ me, Maria. You couldn’t hear them. All of them, just so loud and judgemental and none of them worth-”

“I can, actually.” Maria cocked an eyebrow and a hip. “Hear them.” She pointed at her temple with two fingers and then pinched the bridge of her nose. “Maybe not as clearly as you, but trust me. They’re there.” She paused and dropped her hand. “They also have a tendency to just say whatever they’re thinking straight to my face.” Maria folded her arms over her chest, staring at where Isobel was standing. “You can’t just drag me here every time you feel like it, you know.”

“Why not?” Isobel turned and Maria got a good look at her in this light. There were no lies here and she was tired, stretched thin, and red-eyed. Her hair was slipping out of the careful updo, catching the smeared light as she touched careful fingers to the lillies that sat still on the coffin. Nothing moved but them, nothing was alive but them. “It’s quiet here. You know what it’s like to stare into the unmitigated horror that is the human psyche.” 

There were so many questions that just sat on the surface, but Maria just let Isobel have a moment of silence. The graveyard was a well-kept sprawl of acreage that had meandering roads that slipped through the sites and dawdled along the hills that started to push up from the flatlands. The trees were well manicured, desert flowers trellised over the crypts and mausoleums. The ground was browning, the leaves on the small desert oak gone hard and nubby in the winter. Maria looked around. “We could be anywhere,” she said after a moment. “Why here?”

Isobel didn’t look up, fingers stroking along the shiny brass handle on the coffin. “Truth?”

“That’s all I ever want from you,” Maria heard herself say. The words seemed to tumble out of her mouth, spitting gravelly into her palms and she just sagged. “Could I at least sit down?” 

Isobel waved a hand and the crowd blew away like dust, shimmering and golden as it drifted away in a wave of half-heard whispers. Maria glanced around, noting the rows of white-backed chairs and the coffin stayed. She tucked her hands down the back of her thighs as she sat, tugging the hem of her skirt as she crossed her legs, and stretched her arms along the backs of the row of chairs. “I want to remember this instead of-”

It was a flash, the world just slapping down a different view, going dark and wet with a body in the dirt, shirt open, and a sprawling, spider webbing burn crawling over the skin. Noah Bracken was dead in the dirt, muddy water pooling under his hair, his shoulders, at the divots where his heels sat. He didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t breath, just lay there in the dark like a threat. The world went bright again, the body melting in the sunshine, flesh peeling back and sloughing off until it settled back into the deep gouge in the earth, shadowed by the shiny gleam of the coffin. 

“They asked me to identify the body,” she whispered, rubbing a white petal between her fingers. “I recognized his suit.”

Isobel looked up, across the coffin and into a mirror. Maria watched the way her smile went soft in the reflection as Noah slipped behind her, touching a soft kiss to the curve of her neck as he lifted her hair to drape over the opposite shoulder. He glanced up, the shared moment heartbreakingly sweet. Maria felt like she was intruding. She wasn’t supposed to be seeing this. Noah’s eyes flicked to hers, dark and full of rage. It was gone just as quickly. She’d imagined it in this world of beautiful, blurred make believe.

“It’s quiet with you.” Isobel turned, the mirror gone, the casket gone, the body gone. 

Maria felt a moment when she had gone nearly translucent and fragile, like if she licked each finger one at a time, she could reach just under her ribs and pull out the tangled string of memory that was wrapped around her heart. 

She turned her head at the sound of a familiar laugh, burbling and indignant. The tent had turned a quick pirouette into night time, spreading and shaking itself out into a stone and cement bridge that hopped over the train tracks. There was a mossy ledge that had a few empty beer bottles and graffiti still drying in the shadows. Rosa and Isobel sat side by side in the dirt, tucked close and matching in rebellion and black. Maria blinked, staring at this version of Isobel. She had her hair draped in one loose sloppy braid over her shoulder, ends curling against the black shirt, black jacket, dark jeans. She sprawled, knees spread and heels indolent in the dirt as she watched Rosa speaking. The world was quiet, just the echo of that burbling laugh until the volume dialed up and she could hear the night wind and the crackle of a joint burning.

“Don’t let anyone make you small. They’re going to try to tell you who you are. Don’t let them.” Rosa’s hair caught in the wind, stop-motion as she seemed to move in small increments, a memory of a memory. She was a flipbook version of herself. “Everyone is so fucking _soft_,” she whispered, fingers loose on the joint and back leaning against the side of the bridge. 

It felt so real here. Maria could feel the cool air of summer nights, the peppery crackle of cheap weed. The rock under her hand was silty, a slight damp grit. She could hear a bird nesting in the trestle and almost taste the drying spray paint. This was a night before they’d danger-raided Rosa’s old stencils. She and Maria had painted over the message and made it heartbreak. _we are ALL alone_. 

The first time she’d caught Rosa scribbling those words she’d frowned. It was so lonely. It was so perfectly sad, like a whisper to the stars that couldn’t listen - light years away and preoccupied with their own burning.

“You’re going to get hurt. People will fail you. It’s what they do. We rely too much, we ask too much of them.” Rosa closed her eyes, mouth moving at barely more than a mumble, and Isobel was watching them from the other side of the train tracks, caught in shadow and moonlight, shivery pale as a ghost. “They can’t meet our incessant demands.”

Maria watched when Isobel turned, reached to tuck her hand against Rosa’s jaw. The look was searching, liquid and wanting in the dark. It was a hungry look, longing and full of wonder. “I want to try.”

“That’s silly.” Rosa breathed the words. 

“I’m tired of being alone.” Isobel’s thumb touched lightly at the bow of Rosa’s lips. “We can’t be afraid forever. We don’t have to be alone.”

Rosa’s eyes dropped closed on a shaky breath. 

Maria felt the scene pause and looked up and over to where Isobel appeared at her shoulder, watching the scene curiously. “That wasn’t you, was it? That hurt her?”

Isobel shook her head. “Not me. Not really.”

Isobel frowned and there was a moment when the world just wiped away, nothing but a sudden and inescapable blackness that pressed so swift and completely against Maria she didn’t have a chance to scream before Rosa and Isobel were reilluminated in a bright spotlight where they sat facing each other. Rosa was wearing her favorite pair of battered black boots, ripped jeans that sat low on her hips, with a nearly threadbare t-shirt she’d plucked from the thrift store rack. She was perfect in the cut of her hip, the defiance in her jaw, and the soft, sweet hope hiding under the smudge of her eyeliner. She had her hands in her lap, chin tilting into Isobel’s touch. Isobel was in black that somehow matched the possessive placement of her fingers along Rosa’s jaw. 

“You’ll never be alone again,” she promised, voice gone low and unendingly sure, patient and in love before a hand reached out of the dark, long fingers settling one by one on Isobel’s chin to turn her, twirl her into a silky black nightgown with lace edging and thin spaghetti straps. Her hair went loose, silken as it draped over her shoulders and curtained around the wrist, the shape forming slowly out of the dark. Noah Bracken was tall, hawkish, with an arrogant mouth gone soft, and dark, hooded eyes that looked hungry. 

“You’ll never be alone again.” He ducked his head, mouth slotting into a kiss that he pulled closer, stepping into Isobel like walking through a door and falling into a turn that caught up to the moment under the bridge in a sickening loop. They caught Rosa’s mouth in a slow supple groan. Noah wore Isobel like loose clothing, layered into her as her hand dropped to the small of Rosa’s back, curling her close under the graffiti in the moonlight. 

“Stop it.”

Isobel leaned back just enough that she could climb out of the scene, heaving onto the dirt to pant with terrified eyes as Noah whispered careful words against Rosa’s mouth. “You’ll never be alone again,” he said, breath hitching as his fingers carded into her hair. “I will be in the corners of the dark, the edges of the heart, haunting this lonely house.”

Maria screamed as Noah seemed to melt, fading and going wet at the edges, hair falling from black to an ashen, gray blond, and eyes shriveling into his face until they were empty gaping holes. His skin faded, losing the deep golden coloring. He went loose, hanging off the bones of his frame until he simply grinned a skeletal smile, teeth and bone and doughy rot.

She nearly fell as they slammed out of the space and back into reality, the low murmur of voices hushed as she gripped the hand in hers, knuckles nearly white in the residual fear that pumped through them. The light was intense, bright and cheerful around the way her heart raced. It clamored in her ears, rabbit fast and terrified.

“Iz?” Max had turned, close and concerned as Isobel trembled in her black dress and heels.

“Max,” Isobel breathed, dropping Maria’s hand and turning to fling her arms around her brother, tucked close and shaking. Max glanced at Maria and then back at Michael as he gathered her up.

The crowd went silent for a moment, mistaking her fear for grief and paused. The silence stretched for a half-breath - a hitched sob echoing around the sea of faces and out across the graveyard. It was just a second of a slip, but it was enough. Maria felt a wave of sympathy and a slight undercurrent of something smug and ugly. Max turned his face against Isobel’s hair, shushing her quietly as he held her. Michael reached forward, placing a hand on her back, and Maria felt awkward, holding her own hands and looking at Alex and Liz and Kyle for support before turning back to the sight of her shoes on the bright green astroturf. 

Around them, the funeral exhaled into motion. A short paunchy pastor took an imperious nodded cue from Ann Evans and moved to stand at the head of the coffin, bible sprawled over his round palm, pages thin and marked with pen and small tabs of colored paper. Isobel Evans had a way of pausing the world and Maria ducked her head, steeling herself.

“We gather here to commend our brother Noah Bracken, to God our Father, and to commit his body to the earth.” He had a soft, tenor voice that carried easily over the crowd, lilting and pleasant. He looked around the crowd, holding their attention with a gentle look. “In the spirit of faith in the Resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, let us pause in silence and offer our prayers for Noah.” He ducked his head, eyes closed, and the sound of the crowd shuffling to follow was louder than the quiet hitching breaths Isobel was taking.

They buried Noah Bracken on Friday by four in the afternoon. They buried a body the right way, but Maria could only wonder if that was going to be enough.

**

Levi was propped up on the back of Hunter’s Bronco, head tilted back against the leather seats and eyes closed. “I am bored.”

Hunter didn’t glance over from where he was settled on his stomach in the dirt, scope pointed to the graveyard that sat below them in the valley between the foothills. He could count all 872 heads that were crowded around the gravesite and note the date on the headstone at the back north corner of the acreage. He’d wet his lips, focused on the task in front of him. His rifle was propped on a low-slung swivel bipod that allowed him to sweep slowly from left to right and back without sacrificing accuracy. “If you’re bored,” he replied, voice low and pitched in his chest to keep the sound from being caught on the breeze and carried further than he wanted. “You’re boring.”

“We could have brought the dog,” Levi replied, the pout evident in his voice. “I do not like to be sitting and doing nothing.”

“We’ve been over this,” Hunter answered, wetting his lips and blinking quickly, view catching on a small rush of movement where Isobel Evans had turned and flung herself into the arms of her brother. “You are not doing nothing. You have a very important task.”

Levi scoffed and Hunter could hear the creak of leather seats as the other man shifted, rearranging himself on the seat, and the Bronco bounced lightly on its shocks. “Yes. I am to be feeling for others.” He paused. “I did. There are no others.”

“Levi.”

“Hunter.”

“Should I have brought you a fucking do-bag like a toddler?” 

"A book would have been nice."

"You learned to read?"

"Ha ha, I have forgotten that you were funny."

“Fucking hysterical,” Hunter muttered. “Now shut up, Marvin the Martian. Some of us are actually working.”

“You are staring at pretty women. This is not work.”

“Your uncanny ability to dilute my job to something as simple as people watching is a gift.” Hunter felt the smile quirk his mouth. “You know that?”

“I am gifted. Everyone is knowing this.” Levi shifted again and Hunter glanced over at a sense of movement. Levi had gone flat on his back in the Bronco, legs hooked over the side and feet dangling against the side in his heavy work boots. 

“When you can be gifted without puking in five minutes, we’ll talk,” Hunter answered, tart as he tucked his tongue against his top lip and flicked his eyebrows up at his friend. He had bought him those boots. He’d smuggled Levi to safety and bought him a pair of tan work boots.

He’d smuggled out body after body out of Caulfield; twenty three total over the years, with Jim watching over him and making sure the paperwork was shuffled into the right channels. He’d smuggled them out into the desert and to the quiet conclave, tucked into the mountains and off the grid. Levi was the last. He was the first that Hunter remembered seeing behind the thick plated glass, but he was the last to leave.

He’d driven an hour into the dark, the sky wheeling wide and beautiful above them, with a faint trace of the Milky Way curling across the void and broken only by the slips of fast moving clouds. The heat hung low to the ground, radiating up from the earth, cracked and parched for water as it waited for the late fall rains. Levi had died in the summer, resurrected in the night and gasping awake under the blanket in the back of the dark green Bronco. He’d shoved up, flinging the blanket aside and scrambled, flailing arms and feet until he dumped into the dirt in a tangle of confused limbs and wild eyes. He’d made a soft, scared noise that Hunter remembered in his nightmares and scrambled back and away, crab walking from the side of the Bronco until he’d stopped suddenly, and Hunter had been able to see the exact moment he realized he was free.

Hunter hadn't said anything, unable to find the words to calm someone who was seeing the sky for the first time. How did you calm someone who was tasting air, feeling dirt, blinking in a natural dark that was full of sound and wonder? He had settled instead for cutting the engine and letting it go quiet, a clamor of yips and yowling voices in the dark from a pack of coyotes in the distance. He’d been able to hear Levi’s breaths, could have counted them on his fingers as he’d pushed out the driver’s side door and ducked to gather up the blanket and fold it over his arm. He’d rolled around the back tailgate, leaning against it as he watched Levi stare at the sky, at the grit of dirt on his palms, of the way he scented the wind. 

Levi cried without hesitation; he sobbed without fear. Hunter admired that about him. Hunter had bought him those boots after watching the other man clamber to his bare feet, wearing threadbare gray clothes stained with blood, and take shaking steps in the dark. He’d bought him those boots to hide the scars on the soles of his feet. He’d bought him the boots so he would be able to run anytime, anywhere, and not have to stop. Hunter had seen joy. He’d seen it in Levi taking a breath and tearing out across the desert with fleet feet and a sudden eruption of movement that had him tripping and windmilling until he found a rhythm and a balance that let him race into the night, chasing his breath, chasing the stars.

Hunter had seen joy and he bought it boots.

“Don’t scratch the paint,” Hunter muttered, turning back to his scope and his job. The pastor was lifting his bible before bowing his head, the crowd ducking into silence in a slow outward ripple. “Get your boots off my baby.”

“Don’t put your feet here. Don’t put your feet there. I will have Davi fix. I am comfortable now.” Levi shifted, Hunter could hear it in the way the leather creaked and the Bronco shifted. There was a long stretch of silence and Hunter could almost hear the slow intonation of a prayer as the pastor’s mouth moved. He could hear vehicle sounds from the main road that led back to town proper and the softer chittering of desert insects. It was at least a minute before a soft, plaintive whine eeled over the open tailgate of the Bronco to where he was working. “A book would be nice.”

“I think there’s a Men’s Health in the glove box.”

There was a shuffle and a long pause which meant that Levi had gotten something with which to distract himself from the boredom of a long watch. Hunter had learned to quiet his mind and focus on the details of what was in front of him, picking out patterns instinctively and finding the hitches in the movement he was watching. He was a trained sniper. He was used to waiting.

The funeral was proceeding, the pastor talking and everyone shifting and moving. It was like watching a flock of birds with the stuttering ripples of movement through the crowd. A yawn catching his attention here, a reach of hand there, a half-started stretch that was aborted to maintain the solemnity of the experience. Hunter was forward focused, settling into the gaze and attention and leaving the little distractions behind. He didn’t notice the rock that was digging slightly into his hip anymore. He didn’t notice the way his elbows always felt red and raw after sitting against the spread cloth of the blanket and the crease of his dusky-toned flannel shirt. He had moved forward into the sight line and left the small cache of change in his left pocket behind. 

The casket was being lowered and his watch was almost over. He could hear the soft, long breaths that meant Levi was asleep. The man had never broken the necessary habit of being able to drop asleep and catnap wherever, whenever. Hunter didn’t begrudge him his rest, but simply closed his eyes for a moment, pulling his shoulders in a quick stretch as he rolled his head. If Levi was asleep, he felt safe. He hadn’t sensed a threat. Hunter almost relaxed. He almost missed the prickle of awareness that alerted him a breath too late. He had one startled second of recognition at a quiet scuff of boot in the dirt before the unmistakable click of a safety being flicked off.

“I’m having a moment where I’m not sure I want to know why you have an MK13 mod 7 pointed at my friends,” came a soft female voice and the touch of a pistol to the back of his head. “But, I really like this outfit and blood is a bitch to get out. So, consider me generous.”

Hunter didn’t move his hands, stilling with a soft exhale that wouldn’t shift the current scope sight. “Depends on how willing you are to believe the impossible.” 

“I did have a whole five minutes where I believed in wizards,” came the reply, sardonic in a silky alto. Hunter gauged her height from where the voice was coming, the distance of her arm to the back of his head and knew that he had one chance. He didn’t drop his hands, didn’t give any indication just threw his entire body to the left, catching the threat at the ankle as he rolled and lifted his hands to slap the pistol away. This wasn’t the time to try and disarm, just time to change the stakes and even the odds so he could get a better view of the entire situation. 

She was blonde, lithe, and competent in the problematic way that meant she let the smack move her whole arm instead of loosening her grip and dropping her 9mm to the dirt. She fell in a practiced way, going loose and careful of the weapon before rolling to keep eyes on him. They were both fighting before there was a chance for words, his fist getting dodged as she cut her wrist to the left. He caught the top of the pistol, thumb working the release catch so that it disassembled as she pulled back. There was a soft noise of annoyance and the gun dropped and they grappled. She fought without rules, knees and elbows, teeth and one moment with her fingers yanking his head to the side by a fistful of his hair. They rolled, bumping and flipping through the dirt, the spread blanket tangling around their legs.

“Who-?”

She fought like a wildcat and his eyes rolled when she caught him with a hard elbow to the kidney and flipped her wrists through the weak point of his thumb in his grip. She was good, well trained, and dangerous. 

He was better. He leveraged his bulk and weight to pin her again, grappling her wrists to the dirt and she went limp, panting for a second. Hunter had a moment to register catlike green eyes, pointed chin, and a wicked realization of the fact that she was stunning. She narrowed her eyes, the only warning he got before she was yanking to get one hand free.

“Levi!” he managed, choking at the swift palm to his throat that caught the next words in a burble, and he fought the instinct to panic at the short, painful breaths he was able to take. This had to stop. If he didn’t act now neither of them was going to make it out of this fight without a cracked rib, a black eye, and maybe a broken nose. He was too careful with the next move, carefully catching her hands again. She kneed him in the groin, rolling them when he curled convulsively. She kicked her legs over, catching him between her knees and pulled a hand back to deliver a solid punch when she was shoved back a few feet by a wave of power that shimmered slightly, like a heat wave. 

She skidded in the dirt, black silk blouse tearing at the shoulder and smeared with the red clay dust of New Mexico. Her hair was a mess, curls falling around her face from where her hair had been caught in a careful set of classy braids, and her eyes were catlike and startlingly green under the delicate line of eyeliner. 

“Shit.” 

She panted and he scrambled, hand at his throat as he choked and tried to get his pulse to calm.

“Please don’t hit him again. He is already so ugly.” Levi folded both arms over the back of the headrest and set his chin on his wrists. Hunter tossed him a dark, angry look, affronted by the casual insult, and Levi grinned cheekily, dimple flickering before he pointed at the woman. “She’s here for the funeral.”

She pushed her hair back and narrowed her eyes at them. “I am. My old partner called me.”

“Oh. Well, come right in then. Jesus.” Hunter heard the way his voice sounded wrecked and raspy as he relaxed out of the fight all at once. “Doesn’t explain the gun to my head.”

She stared between them both, tonguing the corner of her mouth before making a decision. “That partner is Max Evans. And I think you know why that makes me a little suspicious.”

“Is that what we’re calling that? Noted.” Hunter swallowed, turning his head to chuck his chin at Levi. Levi rolled his eyes, turning in the seat and grabbing a water bottle from the cup holder to chuck at his head. Hunter caught it with a sloshing slap to the palm, twisting the cap and taking a few slow, careful sips to soothe his wrecked throat. “Hunter Manes. That’s Levi. We’re keeping watch.”

“You look different from your picture.” She glanced to Levi. “There’s no file for him.”

“It’s the hair.” He grinned, giving her a quick-fingered wave and moved back to where his rifle was set up. “Throws people off.”

“I don’t exist, but there are files.” Levi shook his head and pointed at the woman. “Who are you?”

“Jenna Cameron. I’m here to help.”

**

Michael Guerin could find his way through the Wild Pony with his eyes closed. It was familiar even if the short hallway was dark. It was ten steps in the front door, the railing to the right, separating the front door from the main room. If he stretched a hand out, he’d be able to feel the brick, the overlapping flyers for local events. Just inside the rail and twenty paces to the right was the wall of license plates drilled into the brick. There was a small stage under that, the wood gone scratched and a little sticky, no matter how many times it was mopped. The booths were stiff until body heat warmed the leather, the table tops scuffed and buffed to a soft matte. He knew this place bleary-eyed and out of his mind drunk, so sober in the half light filtering in through the two windows on the west facing wall, he could have found the bartop in seconds.

They’d planned to meet here at 8pm after the burial, confirmed with a quick note in the group text Kyle had started and they used infrequently. He had shown up early, ducking in the front door to walk carefully and quietly into the space. The main lights were off, the space lit by just the overhead in the hallway and a string of hanging lights over the bar. The jukebox and neon were all dark, the tables topped with flipped chairs and the pool table tangled in long shadows. It smelled a bit musty, like warm taps and old leather under something sweeter - Maria’s perfume. He ducked his head, tipping his hat into his palm and inhaled a slow, careful breath. He gathered his courage, crossed to sit at the bar, and set his black cowboy hat on the bartop. There was a noise in the back and he started smacking his palms against the wood bar top lightly to let Maria know she wasn’t alone.

“Hey, DeLuca!”

Maria DeLuca was in the back, he could hear her in the glass rattle of bottles before she turned the corner and popped her head from behind the bead curtain, small flashlight caught between her teeth and a case of cheap tequila in her arms. She froze, narrowing her eyes at him and there was a long, tense moment where he could only look at her, face open before clearing his throat. 

“You open?”

She paused, ducking to spit the flashlight before looking back up and arching an eyebrow at him. “You got money?”

He grinned, ducking his head and closing one eye as he tapped a fingertip against the wood grain. “No, but-”

“I’m not looking to support your particular charity, Guerin.”

“I’m not looking for your charity.”

“Just a handout?” She arched a brow, hip cocked to the side behind the weight of the case in her hands.

“I’m offended.” He pouted lightly at her. “You have offended me. I was here to offer you a hand up.” He grinned, falling carefully back into the rhythm of a decade. “_You_ need a handyman,” he replied, mouth twisting as he spread his palms in supplication. “I’ve been known to be handy.”

“You’ve been known to be a degenerate. You’ve broken more of my tables than any other customer.” Her face as teasing, tone tart as she slapped back at his offer.

“See, I _knew_ I was your least favorite customer.”

Maria snorted and started moving finally, crossing the small space between where she’d been standing and where Michael was sitting. She set the case of tequila down, bottles clattering together and flashlight falling into one of the sleeves. “She needs a lot of work. It’s going to need a careful touch.”

He glanced down, letting her take the olive branch at her own pace. “I can be careful.”

“It might be more work than you think.”

“Worth it. This place is important to me.” He lifted his head and held her gaze. 

There was no music, no clatter of pool cues and raucous laughter. There was nothing in this moment but them taking a breath in the half-dark. He was hopeful, watching her with an open gaze. She narrowed her eyes, reaching to snag a bar towel and fling it over her shoulder before plucking a bottle of cheap bourbon from the well. She palmed the gray spout cover and set it next to him. “Then start acting like it. Stop breaking things.” She paused, tapping the soft gray plastic against the bar before pointing at him around it. “And pay your damn tab.”

Michael Guerin couldn’t have stopped the delighted smile if he’d tried. “Yes, Ma’am.”

**

“You coming?” Liz asked, turning from side to side as she checked the outfit in the mirror. She was in dark jeans, ankle boots, a striped shirt, and black jacket. She’d brushed her hair out of the tight bun she’d pulled it into for the funeral, glossy length curling where it fell in waves over her shoulders. Rosa was sitting on the bed, leaned back on her palms and watching her with an inscrutable look.

“I don’t think so.” Rosa frowned, pushing her hair back and rubbing her nose against her shoulder before settling back into the mess of sheets and blankets. “I think.” She ducked her head before straightening, jaw going stubborn. She spoke like she was convincing herself. “I think I need a meeting. I _should_ hit a meeting.” 

Rosa had been reclaiming her room, the bed unmade and a pile of clothes in small clumps on the floor. The black boots were folded over each other, clattered together where she’d toed them off just inside the door. The books were back and she’d made a nest of pillows around the papasan chair she’d dragged back into the corner. The walls still had the fading scars of where posters used to hang. It had the darker-colored paint squares like bruises where frames had been removed. Rosa wasn’t sure who she was supposed to be in the present but she wasn’t who she’d been in the past. 

“Do you need me to drop you off?”

Rosa moued her mouth, shaking her head as she looked everywhere but at Liz. “No, I think I need to walk. Clear my head? Something. It’s been a day.”

Liz narrowed her eyes, dropping her hair and her hands as she stared at her sister in the reflection before wheeling and pointing at her. “What’s going on?”

“You know, that sounded like it could have been a question but you just forgot halfway through.”

“Don’t change the subject. I remem- I _know_ this look.” She crossed the space, bending at the waist to peer at her sister suspiciously.

“What look?” Rosa innocent was a sight to behold, wide-eyed and guileless. It was stunning and believable for anyone that wasn’t Liz. She’d trained at her mother’s hip just like Rosa. 

“You’re not going to do something stupid, are you?”

“Not on purpose,” Rosa frowned, reaching and palming Liz’s face and giving it a gentle shove in tandem with an eyeroll. “It’s not like I plan to do stupid things.” She paused, continuing even as Liz opened her mouth. “Okay, yeah, that’s a lie, whatever. I couldn’t even pretend there.”

Liz swiveled and flopped onto the bed with a bounce and flounce of hair to prop her head on a crooked elbow. She reached, picking at a fraying edge of Rosa’s jeans, plucking at the loose white threads of denim. “You can talk to me, you know. I have done stupid things now.”

“You? Stupid? I am disbelieving.”

“Doesn’t change the presence of past stupidity.”

“I know that better than most,” Rosa replied. There was a quiet pause before she covered her face and fell backwards onto the bed, head lolling over the edge as she huffed a whine. “Okay, so there was a hot boy today.”

“Oh my _God_.”

“Stop, no. Don’t do that. You don’t get to-”

“Where? How? What? I left you alone for _one shift_! It’s like you have a fucking superpower.”

“You mean, besides coming back from the dead?”

“Obviously. Everyone knows that.”

The pause lengthened and Liz gave it another few moments while Rosa stared at the ceiling, face going on a journey from annoyance to fond remembrance back to sulky frustration. She lifted a hand, booping Rosa on the nose with a soft noise. “Focus. Hot boy. Spill.”

“I don’t have time for this shit, Liz. I’ve got this whole recently-back-from-the-dead bullshit to deal with. Don’t really need hot boy bullshit on top of it.”

“Hot boy bullshit is the worst. I agree.” Liz thinned her lips and nodded seriously. “Also the most entertaining. Spill or I start singing.”

Rosa’s eyes widened and she turned, tossing Liz an aghast look, mouth open in a mockery of betrayal. “You wouldn’t.”

Liz lifted her eyebrows in response, taking a quick deep breath and started belting out Nickleback. “_Look at this photogra-_” She was cut off by a flurry of movement as Rosa managed to wrestle her way to covering her mouth and glaring down at her.

“Deeply uncool.” Rosa snatched her hand back when Liz licked her palm. “Gross! Oh my god. What are you, twelve?”

“Spill!”

Rosa sighed and fell back into the nest of sheets, curling close to her sister and closing her eyes. “I said _no problemo._”

“_You didn’t._”

“I did. I can’t unsay it. Dying made me a dweeb.”

“I have to ask,” Liz muttered, reaching and casually brushing Rosa’s hair back behind her ear and smirking at her. “Is he a drug dealer?”

Rosa frowned. “I don’t think so. He gave off a hardcore, like, bad boy vibe though. I think it was the scar.”

“So, there was a scar.”

“One of those stupidly hot scars that, like, breaks up the eyebrow, and another across the bridge of his nose, like he’d been in a fight.”

“And we are sure he’s not a drug dealer.”

“No, I just met him for like two seconds, okay. But there... there was a _moment_. I hate it. I don’t want a moment or a boy.”

“I know those moments.” Liz smiled and wriggled closer, setting their foreheads together, eyes closed. “It doesn’t have to be anything. Sometimes you have to let someone in. You build too many walls and it keeps you safe, yeah, but it’s so lonely.”

Liz listened to Rosa breathe, enjoying the close warmth of her sister, real and alive. A decade of missing her sat high in her chest sometimes, choking the air out of her in a strangled, half-formed sob. She had spent a decade wishing she could have this again, that she could have her sister sprawled out on the bed and safe at home. She had spent a decade wondering _what if_. Liz opened her eyes and up close Rosa was blurry and out of focus, but alive. She was perfect and Liz had to close her eyes again to keep from grabbing her up and clutching her close. She needed to let Rosa be alive, let her settle into this room and this life. She’d forgotten what Rosa looked like. She’d forgotten but now Rosa wasn’t the static picture in her mind. 

“When did you get so smart, huh? I don’t think I like this.” Rosa was watching her when she opened her eyes again. “I don’t like that someone hurt you and I wasn’t here t-”

“You were.” Liz interrupted her in a breathless rush. “You were. Oh, I lived so much because you never left. I couldn’t let you go.” She felt Rosa grab her hand, fingers tangling. “I saw both oceans, Rosa. I have three degrees. I broke hearts.”

“I-”

“But you’re here now.” Liz nodded once, firm and sure. “It’s enough. I’ve spent too long being sad. I want to hear about hot boys and I want you to get to walk to a meeting. I want you to get to _go_ to a meeting. Whatever you need. Whatever you want. We got a second chance.”

“So you want me to talk about tall, dark, and handsome?”

“So he’s tall?”

Rosa rolled her eyes and rolled onto her back, folding her hands over her stomach. “I think he might be like a professional driver or something? Is that a thing?” She made a face that pouted her mouth out and touched her top lip to the bottom of her nose. “He was picking up a customer.” Rosa opened her eyes and turned. “Dude. This lady ate like, seven orders of churro pancakes. She’s my _hero_.”

Liz laughed. “Seven?”

“Hyperbole. Whatever. She just ate and ate and ate. She was cool though. A little weird.” Rosa closed her eyes again. “We chatted because it was super fucking quiet today. I even said the ‘slow’ word like four times hoping people would come in, but it didn’t work. But anyway, she was getting picked up. Like maybe he’s a government employee because she was a medical examiner. They travel, right? Like looking at dea-”

“Wait, back up. She’s what?”

“Medical examiner?”

“Did you get a name?” Liz pushed up on a straight arm, face serious as she focused tightly on her sister. “Rosa.”

“Um, Jane? Yeah, he called her Jane.”

“Jane Holden?”

“I didn’t check her ID for pancakes, Liz. I have no idea.”

“No, it’s fine.” Liz heaved her hips up, fishing her phone out of her back pocket and settling back with a little bounce that rocked Rosa from right to left. “I have to go to the wake thing. You’re sure you don’t want to come?”

Rosa shook her head. “Meeting. It’s been too long.”

The room was starting to feel like it was Rosa’s again. Liz had been picking her life up from where she’d been trying to tuck it into the spaces Rosa left behind. Her clothes were slipping out of Rosa’s closet, her shoes out of the rack. Rosa was flopped on her bed, hair a bit mussed in the back and smile a soft, quirked sarcastic as she raised one eyebrow at where Liz knew she was staring. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

“Right!” Liz startled back into motion, ducking forward and kissing her sister’s forehead before she could rethink it, and backed out of the room. “Going. I love you.”

Rosa waved a hand. “Yeah yeah. I promise not to die between here and there. Gonna go get all sober and shit. Do the _deal_.”

“Try not to trip and fall into a hot boy problem while I’m gone.” Liz smiled sweetly, tapping her hand against the door frame, and ducked out.

“I make no promises!”

**

Max hated that Isobel’s Audi was a push-button start. He hated that the engine was so purringly smooth he couldn’t tell whether it was running some days. The interior was a buttery warm leather that matched the wood accents. The foot wells lit up when the engine cut off and the GPS folded down and slipped back into the dash. The luxury was at odds with the outside of the Wild Pony. It wasn’t a classy bar, the speckled adobe side scratched in some places and the patched paint not quite the right shade. There was a white paper bag that seemed to be wheezing its last breaths against the wall, caught against a scrubby, determined weed that was struggling out of the crack in the pavement. 

Isobel Evans didn’t seem like she belonged here, slim-cut dark jeans a classy, retro high-waist with a pale ivory tank-top tucked into the waist. She had a shimmery gold belt, thin and clasped around her dainty waist. She’d taken off the long, fur-lined coat when she’d clambered into the car, setting it neatly on the back seat before closing her eyes and letting Max take the wheel.

Now as the car cut off she blinked her eyes open, pursing her lips at the sight, a boxy, pale scrap of paint covering lettering that was still faintly visible. She was watching the Wild Pony like she didn’t understand why she was here, why she was staring at a wall that looked dilapidated and old. 

"We can go." Max kept his hands on the wheel, tilting his head but not his gaze to where his sister sat.

"No we can't."

"We could. I could just pull right out and we could leave." He glanced over, gaze steady. “Say the word.”

Isobel looked over at him, eyes red and nose scuffed pink. The interior was soundproofed, barely any whisper of the outside world, close and warm. It felt safe here. Isobel sighed and leveled a glare at him. "You and I both know that you would get to the first rest area and feel awful that you didn't say goodbye to the love of your life and start whining like a puppy at a closed door."

"We never had a puppy."

"Irrelevant. The point stands." 

“Iz.”

“I’m not fragile, Max.” Isobel’s jaw worked and she lifted a hand, gripping the handle to the door and pausing there. “He won’t be what breaks me.” She nodded once and pushed the door open, the Audi logo illuminating the ground where it shone from the bottom of the open door. Little bits of luxury littered Isobel’s life, from the glitter of gold on her ears to the light that lit her step into the gravel-rough parking lot. She shook her head, flipping her hair back over her shoulders to sway down her back. She’d worn it loose and parted in the center, the entire shape of her fashion long and simple, from the hooked dangle of long gold earrings, the layered line of double-looped fine gold chain necklace, to the length of her leg ending in a pointed-toe pump with a shiny gold heel. “We couldn’t leave anyway.” She nodded, reaching into the back seat to snatch her coat from the seat and fold it over her forearm. “Who would watch out for Michael? For a genius, he’s a real dumbass.”

Max Evans was a tall man with broad shoulders and an easy, rangy -legged stance. He tucked his hands and the keys into his jacket pocket, the dark brown leather supple over the simple flannel in shades of blue. He’d picked a dark navy henley and a paler blue flannel, tucking both into his boot cut jeans over dark brown boots with neat stitching on the quarter welt. He preferred his belts with a modest pin-buckle with a bit of etching. He huffed a laugh, ducking his head and smoothing his hair back from where it had fallen over his brow with a quick thumb. “Noted. I’ll be right in. Just want to check the perimeter.”

Isobel lifted both brows at him, huffing a soft noise. “Okay, cowboy. Go play. I’ll be inside where it is warm and full of liquor.”

He gave her a quick two-fingered salute and snagged the keys out of the cupholder to his right, popping the door open. Michael was the showy one. Isobel the fashionable one. Max Evans was a modest man doing his best.

He was sure he was a good man who was _trying_.

The Wild Pony was a squat, long adobe building with a few rain spouts that cut holes into the smooth-edged parapet that wrapped the roof. The large sign was dark, the short paved walk to the front door in shadow. Max closed the door; it hissed locked with a soft, pneumatic noise and left him alone in the quiet of a breeze that rolled off the nearby state route like the shove of a semi-truck. The parking lot remained pitted with potholes and achingly empty, freckled with engine leaks and a few black bits of tar. The cracks were home to a myriad of hearty, thorned desert weeds that shook sturdily in the breeze. The sky arched overhead, endless and dappled black, broken by fast-moving clouds. 

His boots crunched as he walked, scanning the parking lot carefully. He counted the cars, Michael’s truck, Maria’s Volvo, Isobel’s Audi, a green Bronco he admired but didn’t recognize, the blue Avalon that Liz had been renting since her car exploded at the Emporium Storage, Kyle’s BMW, and a classic Red Truck that Maria rolled out for special occasions. He ducked in front of the final, an 80’s era brown econoline with an airbrushed mural on the side that he didn’t recognize. He stifled the impulse to knock on the window and ask the person camping in the parking lot to move along. He was out of uniform and needed to stay focused on the task at hand. He was moving by rote, tracking the path that he’d seen in the pile of crime scene photographs in the file on Hank’s death.

Noah had come from the West corner of the parking lot, creeping up to the side of the building and picking his way through the cars. Max paced out to where the parking lot dropped off into the overflow, the New Mexico desert scuffing under his step and a twisted cottonwood attempting to shade a small portion. He glanced over his shoulder, checking the vinyl banner against the memory of the photos. The neon cowboy boot was off and the vinyl had come loose at the bottom right corner, flapping the 20 beers on tap quietly. Noah must have caught Hank here, must have shoved him against a truck. Max imagined it being something old and rusted out with a bench seat and curved wheelbeds of a Ford. He imagined Hank saying something soft and racist, something stupid and intolerable. Killing him would have felt good to Noah, would have felt like a drink of cold water after melting in the sun. Killing him would feel sweet and refreshing. It would feel like vindication and hope, like power. It would feel electric and necessary.

Max turned, walking the path that Hank had been dragged like he was walking it by memory. The pictures had been so vivid. He found the dumpster. He had figured trash would go with trash. It was easier than he’d admit. He could imagine the weight and the way Hank would thump into the glass-filled trash bags. He didn’t even close his eyes, just pulled a few bags over him and stalked away. 

Max glanced to the Pony, the two windows by the stage glowing as the lights came up, the neon lights flickering on and spilling into the night. He left the dumpster and the death behind, watching through the window as Michael pulled chairs from the tables. He watched Isobel wipe something from the seat of the stool next to her as she set her coat down. Alex Manes was sipping a beer, eyes tracking where Michael glanced and smiled at him. He watched Hunter Manes line up a shot on the pool table, surprised when Jenna Cameron tapped a finger to the felt in taunt. Max watched as Kyle turned his head, smiling as he spoke something short to Liz. He watched her bark of laughter and narrowed his eyes. Maria DeLuca carried a pitcher of beer to the center table, setting it down and gesturing to them all with a quick hand. They fit. This ground was moving and working together, laughing and caught close. Max could see himself in the window, see his reflection, and he frowned.

“What are you doing?” A woman’s voice startled him and he took two quick steps back. He rubbed his hands against his thighs as she cocked her head at him. He looked around and then back at where she narrowed her eyes. Recognition straightened her and she pointed. “Oh, hey Sheriff Striptease.”

“You’re the fake faith healer.” 

“Rude. You don’t know that. Technically no one paid for my services.”

Max cocked his head at her, pointing loosely. “What are you doing here?”

“Kyle invited me. Hunter agreed. Why are you creeping through the window and not going inside?” She was a slim woman in a black motorcycle jacket, Janis Joplin t-shirt over flare jeans and the vague feel of a vintage rockstar. She had turquoise in her ears, on her necklace, and tucked into the silver rings on her fingers.

“I was checking the perimeter.”

“Right.” She waited.

“Do you need something?” He could hear the sharpness in his tone, annoyed that there was a stranger, a con artist, at this meeting.

“Thought if I waited long enough you’d start taking your clothes off again.” She shrugged. “I’m headed in. Have fun... checking the perimeter.”

“I was-”

“Yeah, sure.” She lifted both eyebrows and backed away from him with both hands raised.

“Hey-”

“Arizona.”

“What?”

“Arizona. My name. It seemed like you forgot.” She grabbed the corner of the building, pausing there as she watched him. “I was being helpful. You know, so you can make sure your stalker notes are complete with the correct names and all that.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Okay.” She grinned a quick, bright smile and ducked around the corner. Max could hear the slide of a van door snicking shut and lifted both hands to cover his face for a breath before tilting his head back to look at the sky. He let his hands drop and headed to the front door. The building was warmer inside, a smooth bubble of heat that burst outward to flush his cheeks when he pulled the door open. He didn’t need to read the signage posted, he’d seen the official copy in the folder. The floor was still a scuffed linoleum in a brief square in the hallway’s entrance that opened to the wood flooring. The booths were empty and there was a clatter of pool balls and the distinct low thud of a cue ball bouncing off the rails of the pool table. Inside felt welcoming, full of life and the sound of familiar voices. He paused at the gap between the rails, letting his gaze search until Liz looked over at him, eyes going soft and smile impossibly bright.

“Max!”

Max hated his smile, ducking to hide the weird crooked curl of it even as he took the three steps necessary to meet her halfway. He tucked his bottom lip over his teeth and let himself stare for a long moment. Liz Ortecho was stunning, breathtaking.

He’d seen the Grand Canyon on a quick summer trip when he was 14, crammed into the back seat of the car as his mother read and his father drove with an easy wrist draped over the steering wheel. Isobel had kept her headphones on, smacking at him whenever he accidentally crossed the invisible boundary to _her_ side of the back seat. He was halfway through the paperback copy of _The Catcher in the Rye_. He remembers that when they’d piled out of the car and walked the slight downhill slant of the parking lot, he’d been struck by the sheer size of the canyon. He remembers watching it, shades of pink and blue that layered against each other and stretched out to the horizon. It was impossible. Grand was too small a word and he’d held his breath, watching a bird dart free and daring over the expanse. After five minutes they’d started walking the trail that ran along the rim, the wide cement an easy amble. He’d forget.

Max would forget where he was because the trees and scrub obscured the view and it was just another cement walkway lined with the shrubby trees of the desert. He would forget until he’d glance to the side and feel the breath slapped right out of him by the sight again. It was vertiginous, terrifying, and exhilarating. He’d wanted to walk to the edge and lean out, to see more, to feel weightless and awed.

Liz Ortecho felt like that, awe inspiring and terrifying at the same time. She was beautiful and kind, with a mind that boggled him with its sharp edge. She was breathtaking and she was smiling at him as he tucked a careful hand against her jaw and ducked to nose at her hairline. Her shampoo was a crisp floral and he closed his eyes. He could feel her skin against his mouth, soft and smooth. “No Rosa?”

“No. She needed a meeting.”

“Okay.” He inhaled slowly, a clench in his chest twisting sharp before smoothing out again. He kissed her temple, a quick peck and leaned back, tucking her hair behind her ear and tucking her under the weight of his arm against his side. “I’ll see her one of these days.”

“I’m sure she’ll say thank you.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“I don’t either,” Liz answered, tart and straightforward as she turned slightly to look up at him. “And she’s never been one to stand on ceremony. I wouldn’t get my hopes up. There’s ten years of cover up to consider. Plus, the whole murdered in the first place _and_ the making her drive the car.”

He paused, feeling the weight under the glib tone. He chewed on his bottom lip, watching her carefully. “If I could go back,” he started, swallowing around a tightness in his throat. He didn’t finish that thought but skipped to the next, tripping over himself with shame. “It was stupid, but I was scared. I didn’t think. I was a dumb kid. We all just panicked.”

“You’ve tried that argument before and it didn’t go over well.” Liz went quiet, reaching to touch gentle fingers to his mouth, tracing the edge of his lips. She looked higher, holding his eyes as she murmured the next words with a careful quiet tone. “I’d suggest simply accepting your part and continuing this whole amends process. The resurrection was a nice touch.”

“You’re the boss.”

“Damn right, I am.”

“I spent ten years-”

“Your guilt doesn’t make it better, Max.” She nodded once. “I’m... I’m in love with you.” She thinned her mouth and relented as she relaxed against him, smile gone intimate and tender. “But I can be angry with you at the same time. Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive. I’m complicated. We’re complicated. Except how we just aren’t. I love you and I want the grace of working through this. Okay?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” She arched a coy eyebrow at him and Max felt his heart race.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She smiled at him, thumb smoothing over his crooked smile as he ducked to catch her sigh in a kiss.

“Get a room,” Michael called across the space, voice teasing and picking up a few catcalls and whistles from the other people in the bar. Max had forgotten them for a moment. Liz had that effect on him.

He covered his eyes with a quick, embarrassed noise and rolled to shake his head at where Michael was smirking at him. “Michael.”

“Deputy.”

“Beer?” Maria asked, tipping the pitcher in his direction. “None of that light shit.”

“Yes, please.” He tucked a quick kiss to Liz’s hair and lifted his arm to cross the space and take the glass she poured for him. The plastic divoted under his touch as he arched an eyebrow at her. 

“I don’t want to do dishes.” She shrugged. She was in a white tank-top under a bulky multi-colored sweater over a short skirt and patterned tights tucked into tall boots. She smacked his cheek with quick fingers and tossed him a wink. “You’ll survive. Snob.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he answered, lifting the cup to take a quick swallow as Maria tapped her temple and shrugged.

“You guys aren’t the only psychics.”

“I don’t want to be a buzzkill,” Kyle started after a moment, a pause in the music from the jukebox a convenient interjection.

“Too late,” Michael replied, tipping his cup at where Kyle was leaned back against the pool table.

“Cute.” Kyle glanced at Alex, quirking his eyebrows in question. Alex replied to the unspoken question with an elegantly subdued shrug. They didn’t need words, just a look and a gesture, and Max didn’t need to be psychic to feel the irritation that roiled off of Michael before a wall slammed down and it was silent.

“You guys can check dick size later,” came a voice that Max recognized. Hunter Manes didn’t look up from where he was stroking the pool cue over the bridge of his fingers, lining a shot with an easy precision. He flicked his wrist, tapping the white to speed across the felt, bank at one corner, and clip a stripe into the pocket. He smirked, glancing up and looking smug at where Jenna Cameron looked unimpressed and bored. “What was that I heard about Jane Holden?”

“The medical examiner?” Alex spoke finally, pushing away from the wall and pausing just to the right of where Michael was straddling a chair and cupping a half-finished beer in his fingers. 

“I ran into her at work.” Kyle wet his lips and lifted a hand. “She was doing the report on Noah.”

“There wasn’t a handprint,” Max interjected. “I never touched him.”

Kyle’s head snapped to where Max was standing. “You killed him?”

The bar went silent as everyone turned to look at him except Isobel and Michael. He took a moment to look back. He started to his left, eyes flicking over where Arizona was spilling half out of the booth near the pool table. Kyle was next, standing at the edge of the lifted dais that the pool tables occupied and watching Max like he was trying to reconcile what he’d just learned with the man in front of him. Behind him, Levi was nonplussed, sipping a beer and looking around the room. Hunter Manes stood next to Jenna where she was watching him with a mild betrayal that was beginning to feel familiar. Maria was next, mouth open slightly. She closed it when he caught her gaze, brows flicking together as her eyes narrowed speculatively at him. Alex cocked his head and gave a small nod of understanding that allowed Max a small glimmer of vindication. He couldn’t look at Liz, not yet.

“_Yes._”

“And we’re okay with this?” Kyle looked around the room. “We’re okay with the whole vigilante alien justice?”

“It’s not like he gave us much of a choice in the matter,” Michael drawled into the silence. He was pointedly not looking at where Max was standing; he just flexed his hand and frowned at his beer. 

“You. He didn’t give _you_ much choice in the matter,” came a sharp answer as Isobel pulled herself up to stand, falling into folded arms and a thin line of her mouth. “As Noah’s resident finger puppet, who he used as a _murder_ weapon, I think I can safely say there wasn’t much of a choice at all.”

“You always take Max’s side.” Michael gestured between Isobel and Max with a snort. “There’s _always_ a fucking choice, Isobel.”

“Right, because you two gave me such a big choice in everything ten years ago.” She held his stare, unflinching. 

“I thought we weren’t living in the _past_ anymore.” Michael sniffed, sucking his teeth and turned his glower up to watch her with a simmering anger Max was used to having directed at him.

“Michael.” He barked the name across the room, trying to distract his brother from the anger that was starting to go thick and tacky in the room, the air shimmering with a small shake of the tables around him.

“Oh, I _missed_ this.” He rolled his head, attention diverted as he lifted both eyebrows at Max. “I’m ready for the self-righteous lecture. It’s been awhile. Why can’t you be more understanding, Michael? Why can’t you keep being okay with covering up murder, Michael? Why can’t you just keep secrets until I decide it’s okay not to, Michael?”

“That’s not fair,” Max mumbled, hurt crumbling over his face as he let his stance go loose and open.

“Yeah, well, not like anything is fair on this fucking planet. Get used to it.” 

“I did what I had to-”

“You’re always so noble. Doing what you think is best. Did you ever think maybe you should stop and talk to us first? Or were you too high on murder magic to pay attention to us little people? You aren’t a fucking savior, Max. You’re just-”

“Just what? Human? That’s rich coming from you.”

“I’ve never had a problem with what I am.” Michael pushed back, the chair clattering forward as he stood.

“Just me. You’ve _always_ had a problem with _me_.”

“_You made the rules_, Max. You _made_ them. We followed them. You were the fucking gatekeeper. I couldn’t be _happy_ because I couldn’t let anyone _know_. I couldn’t protect the people I love, but you? You get to do whatever the hell you want. Save Liz Ortecho? Fine. Blow our careful cover? Fine. Spill our secrets? Fine.” Michael stalked across the room, tables shoving out of his way as he moved, the air shimmering like a heat wave around him. “Just don’t tell me it was to _protect_ us. You didn’t even consider us. Just what you could do to be the _hero_.”

Max snarled, pushing forward against the wall of force bubbling around Michael. “Poor Michael. Poor sad, lonely Michael. Always the victim. Always so alone. You don’t get to put up the walls and then be angry when we stop trying to get past them. We are your _family_!” The lights flickered, a soft pop echoing as one of the string bulbs broke.

“Then why weren’t you _there_ when-”

“Guerin.”

Michael stilled, face contorted with a pain that Max had only seen once, eyes welling and skin blotchy. He shook, curls trembling as he pulled into himself in inches and breaths. He exhaled, a strong, chest-swelling breath that puffed past his lips as he rocked back onto his heels and frowned sharply. “Whatever.”

“That wasn’t Max’s fault.” Alex Manes swayed from side to side anxiously, shoulders rolling until Michael glanced up and over. Alex didn’t flinch, didn’t shrug, just held the gaze steadily. It was a tense moment and Max felt like he was intruding; feeling the emotion that sat high and hot in his skin. Michael’s head tilted back and he exhaled at the ceiling. 

“Yeah.” Michael deflated and he shook his head slightly, nodding a few times before stretching his fingers with a quick shake. “You’re right. That one was mine.”

“Michael?” Isobel’s voice was careful. 

“Not now, Iz. Okay?” Michael sniffed, wetting his lips and stalked back to where his beer sat on the table. 

A silence settled into the room. It felt charged, electric and tense, as Max watched Michael sit back down, straddling the chair with a frown and snatching the beer to take a sip. Alex Manes took the two half steps to stand just to the right of him, head ducked as he simply reached out and laid a hand at the inside of Michael’s elbow. Michael closed his eyes, jaw working before he covered his hand with quick fingers and nodded once.

“Can we go back to the part where you murdered someone?” Kyle’s voice carried easily across the space and Max’s gaze swung to where Valenti was standing, chin out like he was begging to be hit.

“I murdered a murderer. You want to lock me up? Think a jail cell will hold me? Could hold any of us?”

“Some can,” Hunter Manes chirped, tipping his head up and quirking a quick smile. He glanced at where Levi was shaking his head. “Too soon?”

“You, my friend, are an idiot.”

“It’s a legitimate concern.” Jenna crossed her arms, shrugging and quirking an eyebrow at Max. “Come on, Partner. This isn’t like you.”

Max shifted from foot to foot, weight stiff before he just shoved a hand back through his hair and held it out in supplication. “He was going to hurt the people I cared about and I made a call. Then there was lightning and everything felt a bit...” He paused, searching for the right word. “Exalted.”

“What, like you were in some religious fervor?” Kyle shook his head. 

“More like I was on speed rolled in divine ecstasy.” He rolled his eyes. “I know how that sounds.”

“It’s not like we can change it.” Everyone startled, looking to where Maria DeLuca had spoken up. She shrugged, pragmatic. “Noah is dead and we need to focus on what’s happening _now_.” She nodded, shifting to lean a shoulder against where Isobel was standing. “There’s a medical examiner. There’s a military operation that’s tracking and killing people run by Alex’s family. Jesse Manes is dead. There’s a _bomb_.” She spread her hands and looked around the room. “And there’s the whole-”

“Now?” Kyle spoke directly to her.

“Yes, _now_. I’m sick of secrets.” Maria sighed. “Keeping secrets killed your father and nearly killed my mother. Can we not make the same mistakes as our parents?” 

“Fine.” Kyle folded his arms over his chest and blew out a long breath before lifting his head and looking at Michael, Isobel, and Max in turn. “I don’t think the body was Noah.”

“What?” Isobel’s head snapped to him. “_What_?”

“That’s not funny, Valenti.”

Max felt the world thin around him, a cold coil of dread pooling just under his lungs and spreading over the back of his neck. He focused tightly on Kyle, eyes narrowed as his heartbeat kicked loud to pound in his ears, drowning out the murmur of arguing, indignant voices for a minute before slowing again and clearing. He blinked, feeling a little dizzy as he settled back into his skin, the spiral of dread prickling. “Not possible. No way. It has to be Noah. I saw him.”

“We all saw him,” Michael agreed, gesturing between Max and Isobel. 

“I’m not _sure_,” Kyle continued, glaring over at Maria. “Which is why I wanted to get more data first. Alex is-”

“You knew?”

“Kyle brought it to our attention at the viewing this afternoon. It’s not a long-held secret.” Alex tilted his head and looked at Michael. “What we need to be focusing our attention on is how we can verify that the body was actually Noah. If we can be certain, then the immediate focus can shift to other priorities.”

“How do you propose we do that?” It wasn’t sarcastic and Max had a moment of gratitude that his partner was so level-headed. He glanced over at her and she held his gaze for a moment before turning back to the conversation.

“We get the data. We cross reference what we know. We verify the results. And then we repeat the experiment to be sure.” Liz nodded once. “This is science. This is verifiable information.” She looked over at Max and smiled. “We can figure this out. Together this time.”

“I think my Mom would want to help,” Maria said after a moment, lifting a hand to brush her bangs out of her face. 

“I would very much like to see her,” Levi said. Max startled, he’d nearly forgotten the other man was here. 

“She might have more information about where another project base might be,” Alex added. “That could help us track down Flint.”

Hunter straightened. “Have you checked with M-”

“Last resort.” Alex’s voice was clipped and he frowned, brows drawing together. 

Max nearly jumped when the music chose that moment to start again, a quick guitar riff followed by an old seventies classic. Arizona blinked, pulling her hand back from the jukebox. “It was getting really tense.”

Everyone broke into chatter at that, Michael reaching to curl fingers around Alex’s wrist as they spoke in quick, hushed tones. Maria didn’t leave where she was leaned back against the bar, shoulder touching Isobel’s where she was perched on a backwards barstool. Hunter covered the tip of the pool cue with a palm and dropped his chin against his wrist as he grinned something to Cameron. Kyle shook his head and interjected, Levi narrowing his eyes at Valenti when Hunter barked a laugh and shook his head. It was surreal for a moment, he felt disconnected and drifting, like he was still watching from outside, as Arizona winked at Kyle and slipped next to him with a shy grin. He was watching the people he loved but it was dreamlike, through a glass darkly. He felt a strange clinical calm settle as he watched them.

“Hey,” Liz said and he glanced over, a second of disappointment flickering through him before sinking into a haze. “Where’d you go?”

“I’m good,” he managed, quirking his mouth and thumbing his hair back from his brow. She tilted a concerned look at him that he ducked away from. “Gonna hit the head.”

“Okay,” she whispered, eyes tracking him carefully as he slipped to the edge of the room and into the hallway.

He reached out, steadying himself with light fingers to the wall, feeling the bumps and divots left in the plaster over the years. He made it to the second door, the creak of hinges loud and the bathroom dark. He felt for the lightswitch, glancing at the mirror as the lights came on, feeling like something was flickering at the edge of his vision. The bathroom was a nondescript rectangle with a trough urinal along the far wall and two rickety pine stalls with doors that yawned open. The sink was a formica affair with metal bowls set into the faded gold-flecked white. Max moved, bracing around the middle faucet and slapping it on. He let the water run, eyes closed as he tried to focus, taking slow deep breaths. The water filled the sink, draining with a sluggish reluctance that seemed to gurgle in rhythm. He tapped his thumb to the basin.

“Come on, Evans,” he whispered, counting slowly to ten as his skin crawled. He focused, counting again. He let himself find solace in the numbers, in the careful time they kept. He counted to the soft tick of his watch under the slow rush of the water. He felt himself slowing, calming and relaxing into the rhythm, the ticking a soft, easy sound, grounding him to the moment. He glanced up, catching his eyes in the mirror and smiled. He cupped a handful of water to splash onto his face, nodding once and turning to leave.

Behind him, his reflection watched him go, eyes widening in horror.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex would always go prickly in the dark, sometime after the slow kisses and the soft, aching touches that felt like please and goodbye. Michael knew the way his arm would tense first, stomach going tight as he rolled into motion, rolled away. He knew the line of Alex’s spine by touch alone. He could find the one knot of tension that sat just under his right shoulder blade without thought. In the kitchen, Michael kept his fingers wrapped around the beer that sat against his belt buckle and watched. He watched the way Alex would flinch away from a suggestion before pressing back in with a solution. He watched. He’d gotten good at that. He’d gotten good at locking away the terror in hope of a touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hover for translation on desktop.

The Pony was dark again, the night settled low and heavy over the parking lot. Everyone seemed to be lingering next to their cars, reluctant to leave even as the cold shoved under collars and hems. Kyle clapped his hands together, taking a moment to look around the group. Hunter and Levi were the most likely to leave first, already tucked into the green Bronco, the engine idling in a low rumble. Jenna Cameron had a hand on the door, window open as she spoke through a quiet grin at Hunter as Levi leaned towards the open window. Kyle sucked his teeth, eyebrows up as he tossed his keys in an easy loop over his knuckle.

“Do you only know unbelievably beautiful women?” Arizona asked from his elbow and he turned, grinning brightly at her. 

“I know you, don’t I?”

“Cheesy.” She came closer, turning to lean back against her van as she watched him. She had lovely eyes, intelligent and intent.

“It’s a talent.” 

She nodded once, moving to cross her arms over her chest. He reached, catching her hand before she could close up and tugging lightly. “You are-”

“Attractive? Successful? Wildly and unbelievably perfect?”

“Full of yourself,” she mumbled, twining their fingers together as she narrowed her eyes at him. She was only a bit shorter than him, slight and sharp edged with wild, wavy hair that spilled down her back. He’d found himself distracted half a dozen times during the conversation in the Pony by the way the soft fabric of her shirt draped over the slope of her breast. He’d wanted to reach into the warm pocket of air between the fabric and her skin to thumb over the taut tip of a nipple, to catch the surprised noise against his mouth, but had settled for shoving his desire down and paying attention to the conversation. She was distracting and he’d turned his body carefully to face where Alex was speaking.

“That too.” Kyle wet his lips and followed the light tug to his hand. He stepped into her space, sliding a thigh between hers and looking down at where she smiled hotly at him.

He felt himself focusing in on her, wetting his lips and twisting his arm to pull her closer, stepping into her space and touching his nose to her forehead. He liked that she tipped her head up as he slid his nose down, breath a warm puff against his mouth on a word that sounded like a soft hello. He answered with a hello of his own, pressing her tighter against the side of the ridiculous Econoline and tucking his hands at her waist. She kissed him like it was a promise, a hint of tongue and teeth but soft and wanting. He kissed her back with intent, slow and savoring the way she relaxed into it, into him in increments. He cupped her jaw, sipping at her mouth with a careful slow lipped ease. He wanted to get a hand under her thigh, a hand in her hair, a hand under the thin fabric of her shirt and against her skin. 

Kyle Valenti wanted and Arizona Rocha was willing. He forgot the parking lot, forgot the urgent fear of government conspiracies. He forgot the impending alien threat. He forgot the medical examiner, the body, and the people around him. Kyle was good at focus and right now he had someone under his hands on purpose. She flushed, a cracking moan caught in the back of her throat that could have been his name as she reached and pulled him closer, flush and tight against her. “_Yes_.”

“Com-”

“Kyle!” He startled back, blinking a second and swiveling his head towards the voice, glare breaking into resignation as Liz managed to look both apologetic, awkward, and determined where she’d stumbled to a stop at the back of his BMW. Max Evans had the grace to look amused, ducking his head and smearing a palm over his mouth to hide the smile.

“Liz.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

“Too late, already interrupted. Might was well get to the point so we can get back to it.” Arizona spoke quickly, eyes closed as she visibly pushed down her irritation before turning to look at where Max and Liz were standing together.

“I’m sor-” “Yes, you mentioned that.” Arizona sniffed and sighed heavily, forehead resting for a moment on Kyle’s shoulder before she waved a hand at where Liz was standing - a universal sign to hurry up.

“I just. I wanted to know when you were coming by? I have the morning shift.”

“I can swing by before heading in, grab a coffee.” Liz shifted from foot to foot and Kyle tried not to think too hard about how he must look right now, half hard in his jeans and flushed despite the cold winter air. He cocked his head, eyebrows up when she didn’t back away at the answer. She wasn’t one to back away from a fight or something difficult. “Or not?”

“It’s not that. That’s fine. I just- there’s no real place for me to do the kind of research that would be necessary for this. I don’t have my lab anymore. That’s where I ended up doing a lot of the experimentation for the seru-”

“It’s too dangerous.” He cut into her stream of consciousness. “I appreciate the need, but I can’t in good faith bring this back to the hospital to do work. The last time ended with an active shooter and a fire. I can’t risk our patients like that.” He tilted his head with a small spread of palms. “I won’t.”

“Michael’s science bunker is a hole in the ground,” she lamented. “The lighting is cool, but I need something that can handle the computational modeling that’s going to be necessary to study some of the electroporation tests I want to try. I don’t think his patched together power grid can handle what we need to get done. Not to mention, his handwriting is shit. I need a computer. No disrespect, Mikey.” She glanced to the side and quietly included Michael and Alex as they walked to join them. Kyle could hear Isobel and Maria talking as there was a clatter of chains and the click of a lock.

“Mikey?” Alex quirked an eyebrow at Michael.

Liz grinned brightly at him and he rolled his eyes, waving a general exasperated hand in her direction. “I don’t have the computational power. I’ve been doing most of my modeling from a command line prompt and pirated software. I don’t think that’s going to cut i-”

“We do.” Alex Manes had his hands tucked into the slimline pockets of his coat. He had a talent for understatement, from the way he was dressed in neat jeans, tidy shirt, and the clean lines of his black coat. He gave a slight lift of shoulder, weight tilting from side to side as everyone turned to look at him. He wet his lips, glancing up and giving Kyle a silent heads up before continuing. “The Project Shepherd bunker can be retrofitted to support your experiments. It’s already compiled all the data we were able to get from the hard drives at Caulfield.” He paused, glancing up at Michael and holding his gaze with a steady look. “It’s designed for research.”

“You want to use-” Michael cut off, biting at his bottom lip before taking a slow breath through his nose. “It’s smart.” He nodded once and the unspoken heartlessness was left hanging in the air.

“I think it’s time to repurpose my family's legacy from harm to help.” He kept his voice low, but his timbre and tone naturally carried. Kyle admired the way he could quietly take charge of a situation, the way people leaned close to hear what he had to say. “I can go by in the morning to start setting up the new security protocols. The last thing we need is another surprise visitor.”

Kyle snorted. “You think?”

Michael slanted a look at him. “You only got shot a little.”

“I’ll shoot _you_ a litt-”

“I’ll text over the new protocols in the morning for you both,” Alex continued, speaking over them and looking to Liz. “Get me a list of the items you need and I might be able to submit a classified requisition form.” He paused, eyes flicking to where Arizona was sighing heavily against the side of the Econoline. “Arizona.”

“Oh, yes, hi. I’m here. Nice to be remembered.” She smiled quick and bright as Kyle flinched from the mild reproach. She pushed off the side of the van, brushing her palms together as she shook her head. “It’s... yeah, I’m going to go.” She gave him a tight lipped smile. “See yo-”

“Wait, what? No.” Kyle shook his head, turning to look at her. “What just happened?”

Arizona widened her eyes, smile going saccharine sweet as she layered a soft version of her voice carefully over her words. It felt wrong. “I’m sorry if I’m not going to play patient love interest to your group. You guys are spending all this time trying to identify a body and piece together murders from the last ten years.” “Yeah?”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Max said simply, confusion evident in his voice. 

“The right thing?” Arizona huffed a breath and tilted her head up at the sky. “I’m going to say something I regret.” She inhaled slowly and smiled at them all.

“If I remember correctly,” Max started, bristling. “You con people out of money with the promise of medical healing. I’m having trouble seeing your moral high ground here.”

“Right.” Arizona tucked her lips over her mouth, narrowing her eyes and looking at him. “And how did you find that out, Deputy?” She straightened, taking a slow step forward and planting her hands on her hips. She glared up at him, head tilted back and unafraid. “Was it threatening me out of your jurisdiction with legal action and arrest? I’m a little foggy, maybe you could remind me of what case you were working that brought you across state lines?” She cocked her head, pausing for a moment like she was listening for an answer. “Was it one of the missing persons cases that are plastered all over the reservation? Were those murders just not murdery enough for you? Or was it that it was an indigenous person who disappeared? I know we’re just one word away from a slur in your mouth half the time. But please, tell me more about the missing white people. Tell me more about how those are the only murders worth investigating.” She crossed her arms over her chest, the strange customer service voice tilting sweetly as she spoke. “I think you’ve proven that your interest in truth and justice ends at the venn diagram of your ideals and your family.”

“That’s not fair,” Max had pulled unconsciously to his full height, chin tucked down as he managed to look both angry and like a kicked dog.

“The instance of violence against indigenous women is twenty four percent higher than the national average. We go missing at an alarming rate. How many bodies on the reservation match the description you’re looking for that were simply ignored because it was a reservation problem?” She scoffed, looking Max up and down before shaking her head. “Your department doesn’t actually care about helping people. They just care about-”

“My mother is the Sheriff.” Kyle sniffed, feeling a coil of anger settle in his shoulders. He rolled them, trying not to notice the way Max was looking at him in confused thanks, surprised that they were on the same side for once. He lifted his head, sucking his teeth and nodding a few times before meeting the look Arizona had turned on him. 

He watched the way the information hit and processed. He watched the way Arizona’s eyes widened before narrowing, jaw going hard and sharp. Her hair moved in the eddying breeze that picked up during the long pause. An awkwardness settled on the group, uneven and wobbling around the small scrap of pavement between his beamer and her van. She nodded once, decided and blew out a breath. “I thought your father was-”

“He was. My mother was elected after he passed.” He didn’t flinch from the defensiveness in his voice. 

She exhaled and closed with a startling efficiency, face going blank before a soft, fake smile peeled over her face. “I’ll just keep quiet then?” It was a dangerous question and he didn’t move, hands tapping lightly against his thighs.

“I can make an inquiry,” Max broke into the silence and Kyle found himself frowning even as he made sure not to drop Arizona’s gaze. It unnerved him when he and Evans were on the same side of an argument. “Once we get Cameron reinstated tomorrow, we can make a formal requisition to the reservation to see if there are any disappearances or cases that match the keywords.”

“You do that, Deputy.” Arizona tucked her hands into her pockets and he could hear the way she was fingering her keys, planning an escape. He took a half step forward before Max’s words caught in his mind.

“Wait,” Kyle asked, pulling up short and turning his gaze back to where Max was frowning. “How do you intend to get Jenna reinstated? There was a formal severance after the shooting outside the gala.”

Max looked down sharply and then tilted a level look at Kyle, explanation in the small lift of his eyebrows and the rueful twist at the corner of his mouth. “We need Camer-”

“No. _No._ You are _not_ fucking around in my mother’s head. Absolutely not.” Kyle shook his head and took a quick step closer, pushing into Max’s space and frowning darkly. “The last time an alien got into my family’s head, my father died. It wasn’t an easy death. I won’t stand by and-”

“It doesn’t cause cancer,” Michael interrupted. He didn’t look pleased, looking out across the field beyond the parking lot, curls dancing around his face before looking back to where Kyle and Max were nearly snarling at each other. “The one that did that? He was something else. _We_ can’t do that.”

“_Yet._” Kyle turned back to Max and narrowed his eyes. “Don’t get in my mother’s head, Evans.”

“I’m not the bad guy here, Kyle,” Max replied.

“You have to keep saying that.” Kyle shook his head, mouth thinning. “You don’t think maybe that’s a problem?”

“Kyle,” Liz said, voice firm but soft. He blinked, taking a step back and frowned darkly at the side of his beamer. 

“Yeah, fine.” He nodded as he folded his arms over his chest and turned to look at her. She was soft-eyed, mouth quiet in the moonlight while her hair fumbled around in the breeze. She tilted her head, silent plea as he tucked the threads of his annoyance away and relented. “I’ll meet you tomorrow at the bunker.”

“It would help if I knew where it was,” Liz interjected, pausing Kyle where he had started to turn. 

“I can pick you up.” 

“It’s a date,” Arizona muttered, pulling her keys out of her pocket and spinning them around her finger with a quick flick of wrist. “Can you guys move this somewhere... over there?” She waved her keys in the general direction of the front of the Pony where Isobel and Maria were talking quietly. “I’d like to go and the turning radius is a menace.” She kicked a heel to bounce off the rear tire. 

“Wait.” Kyle reached a hand, touching her hip before following it with an open, heated look. “Just... wait a second.” 

“I’m... I’m gonna... go.” Kyle had never been so grateful to Michael Guerin in his life. He caught the quick thumb jerk and the way the other man had reached out to tap fingers against Liz’ shoulder. Alex was watching Kyle and Arizona with a measuring look, flicking his eyebrows up and twisting his mouth in a sly, baiting smugness that had Kyle rolling his eyes in response.

“Yes. _That_. Going.” Liz nodded and he thanked whatever alien gods were looking out for him in that moment as she grabbed Max Evans by the elbow and started tugging as she backed away. “Goodnight!” She paused. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”

Kyle waved a hand, turning his focus back to where Arizona was glaring everywhere but at him. She folded her arms over her chest, bouncing on a heel as she waited for the sound of retreating feet to fade. “You can look at me and be mad up here.” He sighed, relaxing and turning his hands out. She closed her eyes around a sharp inhale that she blew out like it was turning her head up.

“I didn’t know about your mom,” she started, voice flat.

“I didn’t tell you.” He acknowledged the newness of everything. “After my father died Mom had to fill in the space. She’d been working for the department and was elected to the position after that. She’s been doing her best.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“You did,” he interrupted, face open. “And it’s okay. You’re allowed to be angry.”

“No shit.” She sniffed, jaw working and finally looked at him. He felt that twinge of heat at the sight, fierce and stunning in the moonlight. She blinked and he realized he’d leaned closer, that same sparking want kicking up to crackle between them. He watched her mouth drop open, the hint of teeth and the flicker of tongue mesmerizing. He pulled his eyes back up and took a half step closer. “You’re trying to distract me. I’m mad.”

“If you look like this when you’re angry, it's going to be problematic,” he told her as he took another slow step, letting her lean back to thump against the side of the van as she glared.

“Stop flirting with me. This is serious.”

“I can multitask.” The parking lot wasn’t empty, but he ignored the world. It had interrupted enough. He wanted to smooth the prickling edges of the woman in front of him. He liked the curl and wave of her hair, reaching to pluck a strand from where it caught against her lips. This close he could see the shiver that rattled through her, the soft pound of her heartbeat at the line of her neck.

“I don’t know anything about you,” she told him.

“You’re not an open book either,” he replied. “We can talk.”

“We can?” she was turning her cheek against his palm as he stepped closer. 

“We can totally talk,” he whispered. It was stunning, how tight his lungs felt around the words, the aching heat that shimmered violent and aware under his skin. It was electric, the way he was so sure of where she was by how the need pulled at him. “I want to talk. I want to know.” He couldn’t help it, just ducked forward and caught her mouth, groaning lowly into the way she went pliant under his palms, pressing forward into the touch. “I want to know so much.”

“My real name is Sara,” she whispered. He startled, leaning back with her face caught between his palms. He blinked, searching her face in shock.

“Really?”

“_No_.” She smirked, widening her eyes at him even as she dropped her hands with a jangle of keys to his hips, tugging him tight to her. “Gullible.”

“Come over,” he answered. “We can talk.”

“Pushy too.”

“I prefer focused and open-minded,” he replied, slipping his hands around her hips to tuck his fingers into her back pockets. He cupped his hands, rolling his hips questioningly as he pulled her close. “It’s...”

“Useful,” she agreed, finishing his sentence. She leaned up, closing her teeth lightly on the point of his chin, touching a quick, slick flicker of tongue to his skin. He shivered, a long throb of desire sparking low to twitch sweetly against the fly of his jeans. “Just talk?” Arizona settled back on her heels. 

“If that’s what you want.”

“It’s not.” 

Kyle felt the smile that broke over his face, eyes soft as he watched her. Behind them the voices were fading, the sound of wheels on gravel signaling the end of the night. Everyone had somewhere to go. Everyone had a purpose. Everyone had a plan. Tonight, his stared at him with a careful, guarded heat. “Race you.”

She laughed and shook her head, looking pointedly at his beamer before indicating the bulk of her van. “No rush. I intend to take my time.”

He leaned back, taking a few careful steps to put a safe distance between them even as he reached under the waist of his jeans and tucked himself up and grinned at her. “See, I knew we were on the same page. Just follow me. I’ll go slow.”

**

“No, we can’t just storm the facility.” Alex’s voice was sharp in the small kitchen space of the cabin. Michael had been watching him argue with Hunter for the last twenty minutes, silent as they traded barbs and strategies over the pile of maps on the table top.

“You still haven’t given me a great reason why we can’t. There’s a ton of valuable information down there.” Hunter was sitting in an exasperated line, hair hanging around his face as he flattened his mouth at where Alex was standing.

“And the body. Don’t forget our Dad’s dead body.” Alex snorted, shaking his head.

“If Harlan is going to make a move-”

“_When_ Harlan makes his move,” Alex corrected Hunter absently.

“_When_, fine, _whatever_. When he makes his move, I’d like to be armed.”

“We can’t risk-”

“Oh, _now_ it’s a _risk_?” 

“It’s always been a risk. Stop running into situations blind.” 

Hunter flinched almost imperceptibly, eyes narrowing and paling a little under the scar that cut his hairline. “Ha ha, fucking funny. You’re a comedian, Squirt. Should I call you _Stumpy_ now?”

“I didn’t mean-” Alex closed his eyes, face going annoyed and apologetic under the line of his mouth.

“Whatever, just let me get the god damned guns and we can blow this shit-”

“Would you stop thinking we can just shoot our way out of this situation. Fuck, the marines really did melt your brain.”

“Hoorah. Would you rather we air condition your assault plans, you pansy ass Airfor-”

Levi left the table without a word, just put both palms against the edge and pushed back with a loud stutter of chair on hardwood. He sniffed, unaffected at the way Hunter, Alex, and Michael all paused and stared at him as he padded around them to the sink and started opening cabinets. He moved from left to right first, pulling open the one to the right of the sink, then moved toward the stove range and left each door hanging open behind him. He sighed, closing them as he walked back to the sink. The cabinets were full of cereal, pasta, a few canned items, and pots and pans in mismatched stacks. He started pulling the doors open to the left next, letting out a soft cry of happiness when he plucked a glass from the shelves and raised it high in triumph. 

“You could have asked,” Alex drawled, wetting his lips and blinking a few times as he tilted his head pointedly. 

“You were very busy yelling at each other,” Levi replied, nonplussed. “It seemed easier.”

The cabin was lit up, the kitchen was crowded with the four of them and two dogs. Wentz had been following Hunter’s dog, Harley, around, tail thumping loudly against the cabinets as she badgered and gnawed at the older catahoula hound who continued to walk away from the excited puppy. Harley was a white-muzzled, dappled, older male with one blue eye who whined sadly whenever Hunter raised his voice to talk over Alex at the kitchen table. Michael had been enjoying the sight of Alex holding his own, kicked back in his chair on two feet with his toe hooked against the table leg for balance. 

“Don’t mind him, he’s being a bitch,” Hunter muttered around the wry glare he threw his friend, tapping his fingers against the map spread over the table top. “He does this.” He waved a hand in time with the roll of his eyes before hooking a thumb into the elastic tie at his wrist and starting to pull his hair up.

Alex irritated was an old sort of joy for Michael. It was an ache that he liked to poke, warm with a dull pain he pressed like a bruise. This time it wasn’t directed at him and he could enjoy the beauty of simply watching. He had a muscle in his jaw that worked when he was chewing on the words he was refusing to say. Irritation glimmered on him like a heatwave, tensing across his shoulders, flushing his cheeks, and flashing in his dark eyes. It made Michael want to push to his feet and push into his space, to push fingers under his shirt and into his mouth. It used to leave bruises, now it was a pavlovian. He tucked his tongue between his top lip and his teeth, letting his eyes slide recklessly around the angles of Alex’s face when he wasn’t looking. He swallowed. 

Alex would always go prickly in the dark, sometime after the slow kisses and the soft, aching touches that felt like _please_ and _goodbye_. Michael knew the way his arm would tense first, stomach going tight as he rolled into motion, rolled away. He knew the line of Alex’s spine by touch alone. He could find the one knot of tension that sat just under his right shoulder blade without thought. In the kitchen, Michael kept his fingers wrapped around the beer that sat against his belt buckle and watched. He watched the way Alex would flinch away from a suggestion before pressing back in with a solution. He watched. He’d gotten good at that. He’d gotten good at locking away the terror in hope of a touch.

“You have no idea what Flint is up to right now,” Alex reminded his brother, shaking his head. “You lost his trail somewhere outside Tularosa and haven’t been abl-”

“Yes, I told you that, remember? I don’t need you to list my failures-”

“I’m not listing your fucking failures, Hunter.”

Hunter lifted both eyebrows and leaned back from the table. “You sure about that, Squirt?”

“Don’t _call me_ that.”

“Whatever, _Alexander_.”

“Somehow, that’s worse. Jesus.” Alex inhaled through his nose and Michael wanted to put his palms against his ribs, to feel the way his lungs lifted them, shifting his skin and pressing them tight into his touch. He wanted to nose against the heat of that exhale. He wanted Hunter to leave. He wanted. He settled for picking the label off his beer in neat little strips.

“If you’re not going to be helpful,” Alex nearly hissed, eyes narrowing and focusing in on where Hunter was smiling brightly at him.

“I am helpful. I am the model of a helpful person. Look at me,” he waved at himself and Michael’s eyes flickered to where he was sitting. Hunter Manes was built a brawler, barrel-chested and broad-shouldered with knotted knuckles. He was cheekbones over a square jawline with the proud hawkish nose that had been broken one too many times. “I’ve been tracking this for over a week. I _love_ gas station coffee. It’s the _greatest._” The kitchen was small with all of them crowded into it, the tiny table barely prepared for the weight of the conversation let alone what Michael had considered briefly when Alex spread the maps out over the scratched formica. “Levi is great company when he’s grumpy. It’s wonderful making him leave his daughter behind to help.” Hunter was wearing a red Marines t-shirt and a wry smile under black hair half caught up in a sloppy ponytail. “Who found the trail in the first place? Who has been out there in the world setting up the cell tower interfaces? You? Oh, right, no. That’s me.” He had the familial resemblance, the golden skin, dark hair, and ability to convey his annoyance with an agile eyebrow. Michael looked. He wasn’t the only one. Levi shrugged before pulling the refrigerator open and digging through the mess of take-out containers and plastic juice jugs. “So fuck you, I have been so helpful.”

“Then where is he, Hunter?” Alex pressed both palms against the table and leaned in, eyebrows up and sass sharp. “Where’s Flint?”

“You _know_ where he is, Squirt,” Hunter muttered. “We’ve been dancing around it for days.”

“_No_.”

“_Yes_,” Hunter parried, loose in a sharp contrast to the way Alex went tense. “He’s with Mom. You know he’s with Mom.”

“She never-”

“She does with _him_.” Hunter looked down and Michael caught the flicker of anger that hitched in his jaw, a twin to the way Alex’s went hard when he was chewing on words he regretted. Levi reached over Hunter’s shoulder and set a beer next to his hand without a word as he passed, settling back into the seat he’d left behind. “She always has with him.”

The silence dragged around the table top, broken by a soft growl from Harley and a scramble of clawed paws as Wentz pounced. Alex didn’t look away from the spot on the map that he and Hunter were avoiding. Michael sighed, dropping his feet and letting the chair settle back on all four legs with a clatter, and reached to touch Albuquerque on the map. 

“I take it your Mom lives here?” 

“You are correct.” Levi tapped the rim of his cup against Michael’s beer bottle. “It is... sensitive.” Levi sniffed, leaning back and sipping his juice with a neutral look.

“We don’t talk.”

“It’s not easy-” 

Hunter and Alex both sighed heavily and looked at each other as they both attempted to answer the question at the same time. Alex closed his eyes and gestured lightly to Hunter, conceding the floor. 

“Mom only talks to Flint.” Hunter shrugged. “Harlan was Dad’s. I was too independent. Flint? Flint was the one she got to baby. Squirt here was an accident apparently.”

“Fuck _off_, Hunter.”

“Can’t change the truth, dispshit.”

“Anyway. The last time we spoke... it didn’t. It was.” Alex stopped talking, he didn’t cut off, just shut everything down and closed his eyes, knuckles flexing white against the table top. “She helped me find Dad, but I don’t know if that was actually help. Flint is different. He’s her favorite.” Michael watched Alex carefully. He’d gone still. 

“Moms have favorites? TV in the group home lied to me,” Michael drawled, trying for a light wry tone, anything to get Alex to look away from the table top and at him. He was used to pushing. He was used to sparking a response, sparking anything. It was always better than the nothing of Alex boarded up and gone.

“What about our family makes you think that we do things the normal way?” Hunter responded, tart and sharp.

“It’s not like I have a lot of experience with family,” Michael answered, smile trying to break over the twist in his chest. He lifted his eyebrows and tilted his chin to the side in a sarcastic smile that felt like it was cutting him apart from the inside. He regretted the words tumbling out of his mouth even as they fell. “Had a mom for about ten minutes. That went really well. I’m sure we could compa-”

“This is all very sad.” Levi was looking at the floor where the dogs were sitting. “It is nice to be simply free. I think,” he said after a moment, oblivious to the way everyone had looked at him after the interruption. “I would very much like to see the sky.” He nodded and stood, snapping once to signal the older catahoula hound. Harley pushed to his feet, shaking himself out with rattle of his collar and a thump of ears against the nearby cabinet and followed Levi as he simply left the room, the conversation, and the cabin, and walked into the night.

“Fuck.” Hunter dropped his face into his palm and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. I have to go, but we need to go to see Mom.” He stated it simply. “I have to... go.” He pushed to his feet, snagging the beer from the map and turned to follow his friend.

The cabin door slapped once in the frame, a slow squeal of hinges before tapping into place. Alex hadn’t moved from where he stood. He was braced on both palms, left leg back from the table and right resting lighter against the tiled floor. Michael could hear his heartbeat in his ears, staring at the perfect cuticles on Alex’s long-fingered hands. There was a scar on the back of his right wrist, a small silvered half moon that curved neatly around the bone. Michael wanted to reach out, wanted to trace it with a light touch. He wanted to stare at the shift of bone under skin with the same determined focus Alex was glowering at the map of a city three hours away.

“We don’t have to go,” he started.

“Yes, we do.” Alex exhaled slowly, mouth going soft as his jaw relaxed, brows pulled together in a tight sharp line. Michael realized he didn’t have to stop himself. He reached out, tracing the crease between them with the side of his thumb. He throbbed with a bone-deep ache, sweet and necessary as Alex stilled and flicked his eyes up at him. It was a startled look. 

“I’m allowed,” Michael breathed, swallowing and holding the touch. “I’m allowed to do this.”

Alex was braced over the table facing him, skin warm and that intense black gaze stuttering into something vulnerable and soft. Michael swallowed, unable to look away. He was always caught, skewered by the intensity of Alex’s stare when he looked back. It was usually flashes, stuttered looks that skipped over the surface of Michael like a stone on water. It tapped and pecked at him, just these little sparks of heat that lit along his nerves and left him breathless when it ended. This was different. This was different now. Alex simply looked back like he’d been hungry for so long he’d forgotten what hope felt like. Alex looked back like he was terrified, brimming with the same intense need that seemed to well just under Michael’s lungs. 

“Gue-” 

There was a clatter and Michael was moving before he’d realized that’s what his muscles wanted, moving to duck under the gaze and slide into a touch of his mouth to the sharp catch of his name behind Alex’s teeth. He didn’t know how to not want like this, like he’d been bottled away, battered about until he’d explode with it. It was unstoppable and he shook. He was shaking. He was _allowed._

Alex made him forget that it was awkward. Alex made him forget that there was a table between them, that it bit into his hips as he shifted and breathed into kissing him. Alex made him forget that the world existed. It went quiet at the curious touch of fingertips to his jaw. Michael could count the touch, one finger at a time as they settled just right against his skin. He could count them because it was so distinct: this touch, this man. It shut the world down; it shut the hurt down. Alex stilled something deep within him and he felt boneless and cared for as Alex’s fingers found their way along his jaw, around the back of his neck and into his hair with a clutching tug.

The table shoved to the side, crashing against the cabinets as Michael just swiped it out of the way. The map fluttered slightly, a beer starting to rock and then shoving upright and still as Michael reached for Alex. One step, he’d been one step away, and Alex groaned into the way their bodies simply seemed to settle together. He’d been wearing a soft gray t-shirt that stretched over his shoulders. He’d been wearing a soft gray t-shirt that rode up slightly in the back when he bent, a flash of the elastic of his boxer briefs between the bottom hem and his jeans. Michael could only blame a shirt for so long, blame the low ride of those jeans. He could blame the soft cowlicked tufts of dark hair, the short haze of stubble, the scar that cut across his brow, across his cheek, that split the full curve of his bottom lip. 

It was just Alex, though. It was always just Alex. The concerned crinkle between his eyes when he frowned. It was the way his right eyebrow always sat higher than his left, a constant ironic judgement that snarled something hot and dark to the stubborn insolence that lived in Michael. It was the glare, the smile, the way his eyes could go from closed and shuttered to welling with something Michael could drown in.

It was the heat of his mouth, the hunger, the touch of teeth and the way his hands dropped from Michael’s curls to his hips. It was the silent demand. It was Alex, just Alex. 

“Just, let me,” Michael breathed, ducking his head out of the kiss and smiling a little at the angry sound Alex made. It was a distraction, it was silence to grab and tug at the soft cotton t-shirt. Alex lifted his arms, skinning out of the shirt with a sigh and dropped his hands in a fluid motion to cup Michael’s jaw. 

“Yeah?” Alex’s voice was a quiet smile, amused and sure in a way Michael always wanted to seem but Alex managed effortlessly. Michael was never sure of anything. And then Alex ducked, nose bumping against his, tilting his chin up with a press of thumbs so he could catch his mouth again. Michael wanted to be sure of _this_. He wanted to be sure of this one thing.

The first time they’d kissed it had felt like he’d found a static point, a place of constants. It had felt like he could orient himself finally. Everything was going to be ‘_in relation to Alex’ _ from that moment on, from the moment he’d exhaled and leaned back, smiling into the first time he’d felt right. Upright and oriented, grounded in something that was secure and slotted easily into place. The pull was gone when he’d found the source. The chaos stilled. 

Alex was smiling against his mouth now. He could have this.

**

The Sheriff’s department was a four-story building that sat solidly on the street corner. It hefted itself up from the sidewalk and sprawled back from the main square, cluttered with decal-strewn windows and a historic landmark plaque. The white-edged double doors led into a short hallway that opened into a lobby settled with spindly blue and metal chairs that lined up around the central booking desk. The hallway itself was inset with four doors neatly labeled and the lobby backed against a bank of two elevators, one on either side of the building that led up the holding cells and the main offices. Max’s office was on the third floor, two desks that sat opposite each other in a small room off the main Sheriff’s office. That office sat on the south side of the building, always getting some sort of sun and baking the potted plants that were tucked near the windowsill. Max’s desk was cluttered with paperwork, his favorite coffee mug, a battered copy of Watership Down, and his computer. The desk opposite sat empty, waiting. 

Sheriff Valenti was talking on the phone in a hushed voice when they arrived. Her office was a wall of windows that could be shuttered with several venetian blinds. The desk sat back from the door, simple and utilitarian with two wooden chairs opposite. She was surrounded by her certificates of accomplishment, childhood photos of her son, and a finicky-looking fern that poked up from on top of a black, metal filing cabinet. She’d acknowledged them with a small frown when he’d knocked his knuckles to the door frame and held up a long finger.

Cameron was on edge but determined to hide it. She had her hair caught back in a french braid that kept her curls half-tamed. She was a long line of tension tucked into slim fit jeans, high brown boots, and a white blouse under a bomber jacket. She’d stuffed her hands into the pockets in the elevator, staring at the numbers as they dinged and not speaking. Max settled his weight low in his hips, hooking his thumbs into his belt and easing into the easy bow legged stance as he listened to the slow chug of the elevator cables, the way they clattered in tick-tock time as the counterweight rolled them from the first floor to the next. Each floor dinged, a soft chirp to mark time.

“Brooding level... teenage boy just discovering the lyrics to Rage Against the Machine?” Max took a sip of his coffee, slanting her a considering look before smirking as the elevator doors slid open. He pointed around the cup, watch shifting on his wrist. “No.” He gasped. “_Worse_. Teenage boy discovering that his favorite band is on vinyl in his father’s collection!”

“That is oddly specific, Evans,” Jenna muttered, glaring at him before straightening to stalk out of the elevator.

“The best writers draw from experience,” he reminded her with a cheerful smirk. Their office was set off the elevator, a rectangle that moved to the left of the elevator doors and towards the stairwell that wandered up the back corner of the building. He tapped two fingers to his temple and dropped his hands to wrap around the strap on his satchel bag. 

“This is why you are unpublished.”

“Ow. That hurts.” He coughed, covering his heart and staggering a few steps, feigning pain and overdramatic injury.

“I almost feel sorry for you.” She sniffed, standing for a moment in the doorway, eyes glancing quickly around the space before settling on her empty desk. “Almost.” She turned, quick and adroit like a practiced military about-face. “This isn’t going to work.”

“It’ll work.”

“You don’t know that.” She tilted her head and thinned her mouth at him, annoyed. “This is my life you’re messing with. I left with the promise of a letter of recommendation, but begging for my job ba-” 

“No begging. We don’t beg, Cameron.” 

“Evans.” 

He ducked, palming his white hat and setting it on the desk before leaning to half perch on the edge of her desk. He slipped out of his bag, hair falling over his brow and he shoved it back absently. The clock on the wall didn’t slow down, just clicked from one minute to the next as he watched. The red second hand stuttering between the numbers. He could hear it. It matched the slight thump of his watch against his skin. He sipped his coffee, eyes wide and unconcerned as he watched her. “I would not have called you if I didn’t need your help. You know that. I meant what I said the last time we spoke.”

“Oh yes, great friend.” She rolled her eyes. “How’s Liz?”

“Right.” Max lifted both eyebrows to pick his head up from where he’d ducked to the side at the words like he’d been slapped. “We’re just going to blow past brooding directly into brawling?”

“Safer than standing here worrying.”

“Copy that.” He opened his arms. “Fire away.”

“You know my aim, Evans. I don’t want to have to clean up the mess. Put your arms down and just give me your coffee.”

“Caffeine makes you anxiou-”

“I rescind my generosity. I’m shooting you.” She sighed, cocking her head at him. “Good thing they took my weapon.”

Max grinned and handed her the coffee as he kicked to his feet again and crossed to the office. “Stop shooting things. It’s how we ended up here in the first place.” Sheriff Valenti nodded at him, gesturing for him to enter as she brought her phone call to a close. He looked back over to where Jenna was standing, chugging his coffee. “Maybe use your words?”

“Did I say you were a good partner? I lied. I am a lying liar who lies. I’m going to get a beer.” She tossed the empty cup in the trash and stalked to where he was holding the door for her. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he told her, smirking even as he prepared for the conversation. “Sheriff.”

“Evans. Cameron, nice to see you again.” Sheriff Valenti was a slim, sharp woman with a severe ponytail and soft, pink fingernails. She kept her earrings simple, her uniform pressed, and her office tidy. The small personal details all told the story of a strong woman raising a son with her loving husband. There were gaps on the wall between the pictures. It told the story of a widow who wielded her authority gently and she relaxed back into her chair and she gestured for them to sit. Jenna sank into the seat as Max closed the door behind them and moved to stand behind the vacant one, leaning his hands onto the chair back and nodding at his boss. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to officially petition for the reinstatement of Officer Jenna Cameron.” Max straightened, folding his arms over his chest as both women glanced at him.

“That’s not how this works, Evans.”

“You said she’d asked me to come today,” Jenna hissed, glaring at him.

“I want you to consider making an exception.” 

“She explained herself,” Sheriff Valenti muttered, closing her eyes for a moment like she was tired of this conversation.

“She lied.” Max took a slow breath, focusing and trying to find that moment he’d found before. He needed to make amends. He needed to fix what he’d broken. He felt the moment it clicked, a rush of bright searing triumph that tingled in his fingertips and spread warm through his chest. “It was a flimsy explanation, though, wasn’t it?” 

The office had gone quiet, the length of moments stretching. He could hear the tick of seconds on the wall clock behind him, could hear the way they slowed, clattering and grinding in the gears until it simply paused. The light went sharp and bright before glowing into the long, blurred gloss of suggestion. He smirked, superior. 

Sheriff Valenti was still looking where he’d been, slow and human. She blinked, awestruck and dumb in the waves of soft, glowing sunlight that peeled through the slats in the blinds to the southside of the office. He didn’t even have to try. It was easy, making this right. He took a step forward, feeling himself peel out of his body and into a prowling amble that walked him around the desk, walked him to stand just behind where Sheriff Valenti sat. He glanced up, watching the way his mouth moved on his body where he’d it left next to Jenna. He watched the way his old partner was moving in slow motion to look at him. He watched. He knew he was telling them a quick and simple story, a story of a man motivated by possession and ownership, of abuse and violence. He made Noah the bad guy.

Noah _was_ the bad guy. Noah _was_ the problem. _Noah _was the villain.

Max hadn’t wanted to be the hero. He just wanted a quiet life of books and love. He’d wanted his sister to be happy, for Michael to have purpose. He wanted things to go back to how they had been. He needed to make this right. He leaned forward to whisper in Sheriff Valenti’s ear, hand over her shoulder and pressed into the desk as he told her what was real. He knew how to tell a story. He understood narrative. He told her what was right. She wanted to be right, she wanted to believe him. He was the reluctant hero. He was a man forced to make the world just again, smoothing the edges. 

He sighed, ducking his head as he finished, feeling the edges of her concern fade away. She hadn’t looked over at him next to her ear, hadn’t turned from where he was supposedly standing across from her. He took a moment to look at himself. He was talking, mouth twisted in a wry sort of humility, the kind of apology that went with the words. He looked like a man pleading a case. He looked like a man. His body looked up, catching his own gaze with a silent and shocking scream - whole body shaking and shimmering before it glitched and went back to calm, just the casual statement of truth. He smirked to where he stood and slipped back into himself, the light snapping back to flat, the world hitching once and tripping back into the correct rhythm. 

He glanced at his watch, the hands stuck but the ticking continued. He nodded. “If you’d consider the entire story, I think you’d find that Jenna Cameron has been nothing but an exemplary officer, and went above and beyond the call of duty to protect a woman in danger.” He paused, wetting his lips and thumbed the wayward wave of dark hair off his forehead, flicking his eyes up to hold Sheriff Valenti’s. “You understand protecting family, ma’am. Better than any of us.”

Sheriff Valenti frowned. She was getting older, the lines around her mouth pulling deeply and the creases plain in her brow. The room felt large now, expanding in the silence as she seemed to blink and pull herself together. She hid her confusion with a glance to the side, to the picture of Jim on the wall where he was helping a smiling Kyle in the third grade. She narrowed her eyes at the picture, at the slight reflection of herself in the glass before tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Probationary with approval after a thirty day grace period.” She nodded once. “Do not step a single inch out of line. You will be issued a service revolver when I decide you have shown the appropriate amount of respect and contrition-”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

“Don’t interrupt me,” Valenti huffed, turning back in her seat. “I’m not sure why I’m saying yes, but don’t mistake my empathy for forgiveness. You fired your service weapon in public. You endangered the citizens we are entrusted to protect. I will not be lenient. You have desk duty.”

“Yes Ma’am.” Jenna nodded, eyes wide and shocked as she sat across from the simmering annoyance that was radiating off of their boss.

“How long until I can have my part-”

“Don’t push it, Evans.”

Max frowned and nodded once, taking the small victory. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

“Get out of here before I change my mind.” She sniffed, shaking her head and shooing them out of her office with a quick flick of wrist. 

Jenna glanced at him before looking back to where Valenti was sitting before scrambling up and out of her chair. She stumbled slightly in her haste, hurrying out of the office and covering her mouth around a soft, choked noise of delighted joy. Max pulled the door closed behind him, cocking his head and watching his partner take a breath, smile breaking beatific across her face before she whirled and pointed at him. “How...?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Don’t lie to me, Max.”

He ducked his head, glancing up at her from under his lashes after a moment. “Not here.” He shrugged. “I just needed my partner back.”

“She could lose her job.”

“She won’t.”

“You can’t guarantee that.”

“I can try?” He lifted his head and crossed the room, plucking his hat from the desk and tapping the brim against his palm. “One thing at a time. I made a lot of mistakes. I’m trying to make them right.” He shrugged. “It’s the least I can do.”

“The least you could have done was nothing,” Jenna corrected him, absent as she pulled the desk drawers open, checking to see if anything had been missed. A pencil rolled noisily from one side of a drawer to the other and she shook her head. “Glad I didn’t sign the lease in Dayton.”

“What’s in Dayton?”

“_Nothing_. Even the mob left Dayton.”

“Cam?”

She sighed, closing the desk drawer and looked at him. “My sister wasn’t there. Her transfer was blocked.” She rolled her eyes and gave a wan smile. “She’s headed to Yuma, Arizona for a bit. I can drive out from here.”

“You ever going to tell me what happened?”

“What happened to Noah, Max?” Jenna countered, quick and without any pause. They looked at each other for a long moment, the clock on the wall reminding him that time was passing, marking it in a steady clicking. He blinked once and she shook her head. “That’s what I thought.”

**

“I talked to my Dad this morning,” Isobel Evans was saying, head down as she tapped a finger against a small stack of papers that sat on the kitchen island, voice warm and rich in the late morning light. She had her hair down, a cascade of shimmery blonde that puddled over her shoulders. She had been talking for ten minutes, just rolling through a pattern of possibilities while Maria poked at the sleek looking espresso machine tucked into the corner of the kitchen. “He thinks we should be able to file a simple appeal to the city and get a temporary stay that will allow you to reopen during the renovations.” She paused, pursing her lips before sitting up straighter, braless in her silky black nightgown under the matching, deeply beautiful black silk robe patterned with large watercolor peonies.

Maria Deluca had been trying to figure out the coffee machine on the white marble countertop for ten minutes. “I just want coffee. Make the coffee go before I start throwing things.”

Maria had hauled herself out of the exceptionally comfortable bed with a low whine, putting both feet on the floor and glowering blearily at the bedside table. There was a pristine copy of Gone Girl and a cup of water with two neat aspirin set next to it. She’d ignored the note, sucking her teeth and trying to figure out where she was. She’d woken up in strange beds before, but usually not alone and usually not with a thread count on the sheets that felt heavy and expensive. 

The room was lovely, white sheets with a polished bamboo and chrome headboard, neat brass and marble side tables, and an elegant, green palm patterned bedspread she thought she’d seen somewhere on Pinterest. The entire room looked planned. It looked perfect. Maria realized as she scratched at the wild mess of her curls that she was at Isobel Evans’ house a moment before she sighed heavily and flopped backwards into the plush guest bed.

“Push the green button.” Isobel looked up, pointing at the machine. “It’ll just brew. Come sit. Are you hungry?”

Maria frowned and pushed the button she was sure she’d pressed at least twice, hissing at the machine when it burbled happily to life and started chugging out coffee. “Hungry?”

“Yes, there’s grapefruit in the fridge. Maybe some yogurt. Granola is in the cabinet.” She paused, arching an eyebrow as she tapped the tip of her stylus against her bottom lip before pointing it at where Maria was blinking blearily at her. “It’s labeled, but the berries were old so I threw them out. You’ll have to make do with dried.”

“Berries?”

“Yes, the red ones? Raspberries, strawberries, and the occasional sneaky blueberries. Keep up.”

Maria made a face, mimicking Isobel’s impudent tone as she wobbled barefoot to a stool at the island, plopping into it and staring at the smear of paperwork sprawled over the marble. “It’s early.”

“It’s almost noon.”

“It’s _early._” Maria reached, plucking a photo from the pile and frowned at her tap array in bright color, a flash leaving no room for interpretation. The plastic piping was kinked and cracking, she’d been meaning to replace the aerator nozzle, but she could list at least three pertinent distractions, one of which included being kidnapped. “Why do you have this?”

Isobel sighed, snatching the photo back and setting in into the spot she’d had it. “I organize things.”

“I don’t think a type A personality and a stick up your ass can fix-”

“I don’t have a stick up my ass.”

“Not today.”

Isobel arched a coy and thoughtful eyebrow. “I’m usually the one doing the sticking.”

“Ew.”

“Ew yourself. Some people enjoy it.”

“Can I please have coffee before we discuss the depravity of your sex life?”

“Says the woman who runs the Wild Pony.”

“I would be insulted, but I’m pretty sure I’m still asleep.”

Isobel opened her mouth to deliver a tart reply and paused, narrowing her eyes as she actually focused on where Maria was practically nonverbal in the seat. She sighed, shaking her head and turned a file towards her, each page flagged with small bright post it notes pointing to signature lines. She swirled through the kitchen and Maria found herself staring at the high arches of her feet, the elegant, delicate structure of her ankles, her skin a soft, creamy tone. She found herself frowning. Isobel lifted her right foot, curling her toes to crack against the lovely, light-colored terrazzo, weight shifting as she hummed. “Sign those.”

“What are they?” Maria blinked, wetting her lips and forced her head up from where she’d found herself gazing angrily at the curve of Isobel’s ass against the silk.

“It’s petitions.” She turned, the mug of coffee steaming. It was a pale green ceramic that had a handmade feel to it with a crackle glaze that caught the light. Isobel Evans matched her mugs to her eyes and Maria had no time to be surprised, instead flung out a hand to take the coffee with a soft groan. “You really don’t function without coffee do you?”

“It’s almost like you were listening.” She lifted the mug, inhaling quietly. She startled, turning her eyes on Isobel with a sharp look. “This is... is this white mocha?”

Isobel blinked, confused. “That’s what you drink.”

“Yes?”

Isobel lifted both eyebrows and her chin in question. “And?”

Maria wet her lips, hiding the small smile she couldn’t stop behind a sip. “Nothing.”

Isobel sniffed and shrugged out of the cover up, draping it over the island and leaned, pointing at the first signature line. “Good, you drink coffee and become a human being.” She paused, mouth twisting in ironic amusement. “And I’ll get your bar open again. Tragedy that it is, my brother is fond of it.”

“That’s why you’re doing this?”

“Why else?” Isobel rolled her eyes and Maria watched her over the rim of her coffee mug. They paused in the pearlescent, late-morning light and Maria had a moment to realize she must look wild and rumpled in comparison to the sleek, conditioned lines of Isobel’s life. She touched her hair and Isobel’s eyes flicked up to watch before she flushed slightly and looked back down. “You just need to sign. You don’t need to look pretty.”

Maria swallowed, flushing hotly in embarrassment and took the pen. “Right. Wouldn’t want that.”

**

“You don’t have to go through all the storage right now,” Alex muttered, not looking up from the array of screens that were mounted just in front of the large server stacks in the Project Shepherd Bunker. He was listening to Michael dig around in the storage closets to the left, tucked behind the row of lockers and across from the utilitarian bathroom. There were long pauses where Michael would get distracted, thumbing through a file before setting it aside and starting in on the lab supplies collecting dust under plastic tarping. He flinched at a crash, a large, clunky metal box tossed indiscriminately back out the open door to tumble loudly across the cement floor.

“Sorry!” Michael’s voice was muffled and Alex inhaled slowly, closing his eyes and taking a quick five count before setting his fingers back on the keys.

“There’s a catalogue,” he muttered, wetting his lips and sassing the screens, his reflection a dull dark blob against the scroll of data. “Oh no, I’ll be so careful, Alex. I work better hands on, Alex. I won’t break anything like a toddler hopped up on Mountain Dew and Pixie Stix, what do you think I am, Alex?” 

“I can hear you.”

“I’m aware. I can hear you _breaking things_.”

“It wasn’t an important thing.”

“To you.”

Michael strolled out of the storage closet, chuffing the dust off his hands and frowning at the metal box. “It was a power supply. A broken power supply. It wasn’t important.” He shook his head and Alex glanced over, struck for a moment at the casual way Michael wore his frame. He was a thoughtless sort of beautiful and it stunned him, the line of his shoulders setting off the line of his jaw. His hair jumbled around his face, the shitty fluorescent lighting casting greenish shadows that simply pulled the sharp planes of his cheekbones and hooded his eyes. He put his hands on his hips, glaring down at the offensive piece of outdated tech. He’d grabbed a clean pair of jeans and a battered, snap-front flannel from his truck that morning. He’d dressed careless and casual at the foot of Alex’s bed. Alex had elected to stay sprawled in the tangle of skin-warm sheets and the smell of Michael’s shampoo on his pillow. 

It shouldn’t feel this easy. It shouldn’t feel this simple. He’d pushed up, leaning back against the metal bars of his bed frame and rubbed his face while Michael zipped his fly and wet his lips, blue and green flannel hanging open as he paused. “See something you like, Private?”

Alex had exhaled, slow and steady as he scratched at the back of his neck and shuddered through a yawn. “Shut up and come here.” 

Michael’s eyebrows had shot up, mouth going amused and soft as he strolled closer, letting Alex hook sleep numb fingers into the waist of his jeans and tug him close. Alex had just leaned, dropping his forehead against the heat of Michael’s skin, and hummed. “You stayed.”

“It was late,” Michael had answered, voice dropping low and cautious. “I was tired.”

Alex had tipped his head back, setting the point of his chin against Michael’s stomach, and ran his thumbs light against the cut of his hip. “That’s why you stayed?”

“No.” Michael’s curls had shaken in time with the small jerk of his head as he looked down at Alex. He’d lifted a hand, careful and slow, and traced one light finger over the arch of his eyebrow. “It’s not.”

“Good.” He’d turned, nosing at the crackle of dark hair just under Michael’s navel, and exhaled. “Take these off.”

Michael laughing was still the sweetest sound he’d ever heard, genuine and delighted as he’d undone all the hard work of pulling the denim on that morning. They’d come up for air and lunch, Michael’s thighs trembling as he’d walked into the kitchen to take the slapped-together salami sandwich Alex had made him. Alex had worn his boxers, his prosthetic, and the red marks Michael had left on his skin. He had turned, chewing, and watched Michael hop up onto his counter, eschewing the perfectly good chairs in favor of leaning his head back against the cabinets and making room for Alex’s hips between his knees. It was new, but it felt decades old, a lifetime of lost chances packed into the way Michael would pause, ducking a kiss to his shoulder with a mouth swollen from a morning of caught up kisses. It left his heart aching and overfull against his lungs, helpless as he’d stared at the curve of Michael’s eyelashes, the soft splay of freckles over the bridge of his nose, the constellations on his sun-bronzed shoulders, the feel of his thighs under Alex’s palms. 

It was new. It was rabbit-hearted and unexpected. It was old, something ancient that had been shifting underground and heaving into the world like the slow creep of mountains. It was the way Michael would watch him back, just as startled, just as achingly hopeful.

“Jesus, you’re distracting,” Michael muttered in the bunker and Alex shook himself back to the present, back to his fingers resting lightly on the computer keys as he forced himself to look away. 

“Stop throwing things to get my attention,” Alex replied, swallowing the smile skidding around the corner of his mouth. 

“Nudity only works so long,” Michael replied, thumping down the stairs in his boots and crossing in a scuffling step to where Alex was working.

“I think I’m going to need more evidence of that before we jump to hasty conclusions.”

“Are you asking me to take off my pants again?”

“Be serious.”

“I take my pants off very seriously,” Michael muttered, coming to lean a hip against the edge of the desk the array was perched on. 

Alex smirked at the screen, eyebrows flicking up as he scoffed lightly. “Liar. You strip like an eager sixteen year old.”

Michael reached over, grabbing the arm of his chair and tugging, the ancient wheels grumbling a soft squeal before huffing into motion, spinning him away from the keyboard. “Pay attention to me.”

“So, you admit you were throwing things for attention,” Alex managed around the way his chest went tight at the sight of Michael sprawled half on the edge of the desk, leaned forward and focused securely on him where he sat. He blinked, mouth dropping open on a soft noise when Michael narrowed his gaze. 

“Do I have it?”

“Always.” The truth tumbled out of him when Michael was around too long. It just fell past his teeth and onto the table between them, and he bit his bottom lip, buttoning against the words that wanted to follow, a small, pebbled pile of praise that just waited. The bunker was cool, a soft, dusty sort of recycled air that circulated from the vents on the ceiling. They’d made it there by late afternoon, lagging behind the schedule Alex had hoped to maintain but was content to scrap in favor of the feel of Michael shaking under him, of the feel of Michael’s fingers slipping on sweat slick skin, of _Michael_. 

Michael Guerin was heartbreakingly open. He loved with a helpless fervor that Alex couldn’t look away from. He’d hung on the way Michael’s mouth moaned open, breath hitching as he flushed. He’d tried to force himself to remember this, to remember the way Michael had to grab the metal bars of his headboard, had to find something to hold onto, to ground himself with. Alex understood. He was lost in it, reaching to cover Michael’s fingers but settling for kissing the sharp line of his jaw. It was solemn; it was wild. 

Alex had been lost for so long. He’d gotten so used to feeling Michael even when he was alone that the reality was inspired. He’d forgotten the way Michael would close his eyes when Alex kissed the bridge of his nose. He’d forgotten the way he’d start Alex’s name on a sigh and get lost, noising lowly. He’d forgotten the blazing beauty of Michael Guerin in motion. He could only look so long, flinching from the way his whole world seemed to stop and focus on the little things. 

Even now, caught in the cold air of the bunker, he could feel desire prickle hot down his spine and settle sweet want low in his skin. Even now, he couldn’t look away.

“Jesus, Alex.” Michael blew out a breath, blinking and ducking his head before swallowing. Alex watched the bob of his adam’s apple and forced himself to stay seated. “You can’t just say that shit.”

“Coming from you?” Alex escaped when Michael’s gaze was diverted, reaching to pull himself back to the keyboard. “Rich.” He shook his head. “Cosmic? Seriously? You just toss that at me when I’m not prepared and expect me to be coherent?”

“I was inspired?” Michael ducked his head, mouth plump on a thoughtful pout and Alex had to physically restrain himself from reaching over and fisting his fingers in the fabric of his shirt. 

“You’re dramatic,” Alex muttered, closing his eyes and thinking about the countless moments Michael had slapped him to a stop with his words.

“You like it,” Michael whispered and Alex turned, eyes widening at the careful question tucked under the statement.

“_Yes_.”

The computers were chugging along, the sound of harddrive overwrite a softer undertone to the hum of the fans. He could hear the slow churn of the interior ventilation, the softer pnuematic hiss of the doors pressing and locking around the fluctuation of air. He could feel the smooth plastic keys under his fingers, could hear the creak of the vinyl of his chair, the soft low metal on metal disharmonic as he leaned his weight back and tilted helplessly to where Michael perched. It was gravity, a pull that he orbited, and when Michael moved, he was already in motion. He felt himself open, lean back as Michael surged forward, stumbling a little and catching his face between both palms. It was always a crash, that’s what happened to stationary bodies caught in the pull of something larger, something so immense it dwarfed the horizon.

He lost himself, sinking into it and clutching Michael close, kissing him like he had a decade of loss to atone. Michael dropped to his knees and Alex curled forward, hooking him closer and rolling with the wobbling thump of chair wheels to grasp and clutch at him. He wondered idly if it would ever be something quieter than this - if they would ever be able to look at each other for longer than a breath and not _want_. He wondered if this is what fire felt like when trapped in a match. He could feel his mouth go hot, his lips swollen with the press of kisses. He could feel Michael’s hands under his shirt, roaming his skin. He was flushing, uncaring of the sound of his moans as they fell together, slotting easily into this heat, into a desire that could be banked but never guttered.

“Jesus!” Kyle’s voice was a loud bark of surprise in the bunker. Alex startled back, flailing as the chair tipped precariously, terrified for a bright second before telling his heart to beat when he saw Kyle standing in the doorway. “God _damn it_ you two. Get a fucking room. I can’t unsee that shit.”

“Great.” Michael groaned heavily, sinking to sit back against his heels on the floor and dropping his forehead against Alex’s knee as he gestured at the door in annoyance. “Who let him in?”

“I have a code.”

“You have the worst timing,” Michael corrected.

“I don’t think timing has anything to do with it,” Kyle snarked, shifting the box in his hands and starting down the stairs. He was tipped to the side slightly, watching around the cardboard as he hopped easily to the lower level. “You two are always seconds away from dry humping.”

“Classy. How could I have forgotten how classy you are, Valenti?”

Kyle smiled brightly at where Michael was obviously flushed, disheveled, and hard in his jeans. “Tuck it away, Buttercup. We have work to do.” He glanced at Alex, eyes glittering with amusement. “Hey, babe.”

“I hate you.”

“Hey,” Alex finally managed a greeting, thinning his mouth and arching an eyebrow at his friend. “I take it Liz is getting the rest out of the car?”

“She’s grabbing the agitator, yeah,” Kyle responded, setting the box down and turning to jog back up the stairs. “If only we had someone who could carry more than one box at a time with their brain.” He paused, slapping a palm against the metal railing and pointed at Michael. “Oh wait!”

“I’m not a pack mule,” Michael grumbled.

“But you’d look so cute in a saddle.” Alex tipped his head and flicked both eyebrows up at Kyle, matched only by the dumbfounded look on Michael’s face. “Too much?”

“Too much,” Alex agreed.

“Right. My bad.” He scratched his jaw. “Come help, Guerin. Sorry I implied you were something to be ridden.”

“Why do we put up with this guy?” Michael reached and grabbed the edge of the desk, hauling to his feet. He shoved a hand in his pants, tucking himself up against his waist band while glaring darkly at where Kyle was smirking.

“I’m useful.”

“He’s useful.” Alex blew out a slow breath, shifting uncomfortably as he swiveled back to the monitors. He listened to Michael mutter angrily as he followed Kyle out the door. He heard the door slip shut, felt the air go taut again before the circulators kicked over and pushed a chugging breeze past the server array and out over the open space. The bunker was quiet and he blew out a slow careful breath, wetting his lips and swallowing before turning his face up to the scroll of data he’d been sorting. It was easy to forget why he was here when Michael’s hands were on him. It was easy to forget what they were doing when Michael’s lips slipped against his mouth. When it was quiet and the dust was settling slow back against the cement floor, the metal shelves, the stack of lockers to his left, he couldn’t escape the purpose. He couldn’t look away from the files that unpacked one at a time, titles ticking across the screen with a litany of torture and experimentation.

There were hours of footage, years of it, decades. He’d been shunting those files to the side, learning the naming conventions as he sorted. His job was a form of pattern recognition, turning the piles of data into something recognizable and translating it into simple terms. The pattern of pain flung backwards for generations, decades of more and more specialized research. There were at least fifteen sub projects under the Shepherd heading, a flock of misery that his family carefully tended.

He was glad Michael was out of the room, clicking through another command line prompt that moved all files designated .TRM to a subfolder. He didn’t need to see the number of terminated subjects tick higher and higher. Alex wanted to delete it all, to hide the worst of it away and bury it under layers of encryption. He wanted to push Michael into a corner and kiss him until he was breathless. He didn’t ever want to see his face broken open and ugly with grief. He didn’t want it; he’d seen it enough for one lifetime.

There were few things he wished he didn’t know about Michael. There were few moments he wished he could forget. He wished he could leave the way he knew MIchael’s curls trembled when his whole body shook with fear. He wished he could leave behind the way tears would make his gaze glossy and red before tracking hot and quick over his cheeks. He wished he didn’t know how his screams sounded. There was a specific timbre of desperation under sirens that haunted him, slipping around the edges of his nightmares to coil low in his chest. He could close his eyes and remember the exact shade of paint on the walls of the prison. He could close his eyes and pull up the angle of the crack in the glass, the way the woman had looked so sad, so relieved, so full of an entirely unique, fractured grief. He had plugged the number next to her door into a search field almost immediately when he’d made it back to the bunker, tucking it away before Michael could see. 

Alex had an entire hard drive that catalogued the instances of her designation. She’d been a staple in a sub-project titled Aestrea. He was starting to become accustomed to seeing her face in grainy black and white photos that eventually sprawled into grainy footage before crisping into the HD quality feeds that were catalogued mere weeks before the incident. She had been referenced countless times throughout the decades. She had been a part of something that led to his father, to Flint, and possibly to Harlan. Flint had his signature all over the paperwork and files that cross referenced both she and the bomb engineering. Alex hadn’t been able to break the encryption yet on some of the more redacted files, but the processing power was tasked. Alex Manes could be patient. He clicked through a newly unscrambled folder where Flint was referencing an object of alien origin. 

“Hey,” Liz chirped as she ducked through the doorway, pausing at the top of the stairs to stare at the space. “You... you guys weren’t kidding. This is both impressive and terrifying.”

“It’s smaller than the complex under the dairy farms,” Alex replied, not looking away from the line of script he was writing, adding another layer of encryption to the newer video feeds he found popping up around Roswell. Project Argos was the title tacked onto the surveillance feeds. His father had been paranoid, watching the city in microscopic detail. He’d watched the Mayor’s secretary surf the internet at her desk, could count the number of phones in the library, and had a specific set of views outside the local archive. Alex moved those to the top right monitor, letting it stay focused on the highway exits, clicking through the collected data on license plates and speeding violations. He had exhaled gratefully when the surveillance ended abruptly at the edge of the Mescalero Reservation. 

If his father had been - Alex shook his head, frowning, and tried to remember that his father was dead and no longer the main threat. He tried to think like Harlan, a scramble to catch up after a lifetime of learning the moves of a war with a man who no longer mattered. 

“Should I just set up?”

He didn’t turn, nodding as he flicked open a folder path that had caught his attention: Project Proteus. He startled back blinking at the sudden influx of information about the reactionary period of a group of aliens that had been starved. He swallowed around a surge of bile at the back of his throat when he recognized Levi’s picture inset, younger and gaunt in black and white - hollow-eyed with a shaved head. “Yeah.” He heard how strained his voice sounded and clicked the file closed, turning quickly and plastering a welcoming smile on his face that only kicked over half his mouth. “Table should be good. Welcome?”

Liz Ortecho came dressed for the work set in front of her, comfortable jeans, a cotton shirt in a pretty shade of deep burgundy, and a white lab coat tucked over her arm. She kept her hair caught back out of her face and was holding what looked like a thermal spectrophotometer against her chest. “This is exciting, isn’t it?”

“You’re pronouncing utterly terrifying wrong,” Alex managed. He pushed up to stand, giving himself a moment to find the balance in his core, hips tight and right thigh snarling angrily at the weight before simmering back to the general dull throb. He leaned to the right, testing for a brief second before starting across the space to help her by clearing the books and boxes off the table top. The bunker wasn’t the most comfortable, a long heavy desk built in the late fifties sat squat and solid in the center of the open space. It seemed to dent the bunker, a step down from everywhere else. There were steps up to the desk he was working at, steps up to the small area to the left that held the bathroom, lockers, and a small kitchenette. The storage closet was to the right of the coffee maker. The door was directly opposite the monitor array and led to a small platform that was penned in by the metal railing that curved down with the stairs to stop at the lowest level. The right was a bank of filing cabinets that squealed when opened, thumping with the weight of the files to stay open when pulled. He’d realized this was just a paper trail that had been digitized at some point, a herculean effort that resulted in terabytes of information to puzzle through.

“Maybe a coat of paint? Something to lighten the mood.”

“Brooding military industrial complex isn’t your aesthetic?” Alex smirked. “I’m shocked.” He tapped a finger against the papers he was straightening. “Are they fighting?”

“Physically? No. But you may regret not bringing headphones,” she replied, shaking her head and pulling an arm across her body to stretch her shoulder after setting the spectrophotometer on the tabletop. “We can do this, you know.”

“Should we?” he asked, surprised at himself.

“If we don’t no one will.” Liz had always been pragmatic. She’d been the one to do the homework. She’d been the one to ask careful questions in class. She’d been the one pulling for perfect and he’d secretly admired her drive. There was something comforting in her earnest and relentless race for the truth.

“I wonder if that’s what they told themselves when they started this,” Alex said after a moment.

“Hey,” Liz frowned, crossing to stand in front of him and hold his gaze. “We’re doing this out of love. Not fear. That’s the difference.”

“Is it enough?”

“It’s got to be. I wish I could just science this away, but sometimes you just have to have-” she cut off, ducking her head and sighing a low amused noise. “I can’t believe I’m saying this. Sometimes you just have to have faith.”

**

Roswell New Mexico wanted her dead, but it would settle for drunk. Rosa Ortecho had realized this after her last shift at the Crashdown had her fleeing to the roof and staring hopefully at the cracks in the brick. She’d tried the marked books, the loose electric cover on the roof, and tucked under the booth seat taped to the underside of table three: all empty. There was a specific feeling that came with being bored, it crawled under her skin like an itch, low and dull and inescapable. She was restless, irritable, and discontent. It gnawed at her, a small little voice that would hiss about her failures, the way people would stare at her, the way they wouldn’t. She felt like everyone was talking about her, that the whole of Roswell was trying to decide who she was again. Who she would always be.

“You’re not that important,” Susan had snickered, folding her hands over the white-topped table in the AA clubhouse and shaking her head. She was a white-haired woman with tanned skin who managed to look effortlessly cool under the floral blouses she wore for work. She was always picking at a salad in a tupperware container and drinking diet coke out of the largest to-go cup Rosa had ever seen. 

Rosa had frowned, eyebrows drawing together as she flinched a little from the insult. Susan had glanced up, smirking and giving her a look that contained compassion and tease. “No one is thinking about you. We’re all obsessed with ourselves. Don’t worry.” 

The meeting hadn’t started yet and Rosa had been sitting near the door. The meeting room was tucked into the back corner of a dilapidated strip mall that housed a Dollar Store, a China One buffet, and an out-of-business Payless. The parking lot was always full, at least five motorcycles leaning together in two spots and a cluster of old men smoking cigars and cigarettes as they laughed loudly outside the mirrored windows. There was the universal AA symbol in the front door, the triangle surrounded by a circle. It was a 12-step room and she’d been dragged there ten years ago by Jim when she’d finally thought she’d had enough.

It felt the same. Ten years and the only difference was that the chairs had been swapped out of the bright orange and wood set to something spindly and maroon over metal legs. The room was a long rectangle with seats lining the walls. The twelve steps and twelve traditions were hanging on the left hand wall next to two badly-painted pictures of old white guys. The right wall had three cork boards covered in announcements about picnics, new meetings, and the New Mexico YPAA convention. There was a rack of pamphlets on a table just underneath. The back wall was overrun with a tiny kitchenette: a brown refrigerator, an industrial-sized coffee machine, and a peg board covered in chipped, cheesy coffee mugs over a two basin sink. The man who’d been making coffee had his stringy, brown and silver hair caught back in a ragged ponytail. He was bony with a full mustache, cloudy eyes, and a vague yellow pallor as he trembled through pouring himself a cup.

She hadn’t made eye contact with the group of women clustered together at the table that took up most of the room, sat squarely in the center of the space in front of a solid wood desk. The desk had three baskets sitting on top of it next to a pile of books in various shades of blue. There was a small plaque that simply said “Rule 42” and a bell next to a poker chip wheel. The table was for old timers and do gooders. She remembered the way Jim Valenti would drag her to the table, push her into a chair, and drop a Big Book in front of her. “You’re reading.”

She’d sniffed, fidgeting in her chair as she watched people come in and start to settle into the chairs as the clock ticked closer to noon. Susan had waltzed in with her cookies, her salad, and her gallon of soda to greet a pair of grumpy, rheumy-eyed old men, and the young kid with the telltale tattoos who’d been nervously flipping through a binder in front of him. He had three gold teeth and a cauliflower ear. Susan hadn’t been completely white haired when she’d been here ten years ago, but she’d grown into the look and that annoying serene smile. Rosa wanted to hate her, but she also wanted to be able to seem as content with how weird she was. Susan had a fading rose tattooed on her collarbone that she joked was turning into a long stem the older she got.

The older woman had paused at the kitchen counter, absently opening the cookies and tilting Rosa a considering look before simply walking over to her and handing her one. They were a basic chocolate chip that were a little burnt on the bottom and crispier than Rosa liked. “I know you.”

“Rosa.”

“Right! One of Jim’s, right? Good man. Miss that asshole.” She’d sighed, plopping easily into the seat next to her. “I’m Susan.”

“I know.”

“Don’t mind me. Pretty girl like you is sure to get some attention from the old idiots who have no idea that they are neither as charming nor as good looking as they think they are.” She’d paused, sipping from her soda with a shrug. “Or worse, the new kid who thinks you could cure their shaking and fix them.” Susan’d paused again, dropping into an over-the-top pantomime. “You like bread? I like bread. We’re soulmates!” She’d snorted, shaking her head. “Ugh. Who has time for a project boy? Not me. Too much care and feeding.” 

“I’m not interested in boys right now,” Rosa had replied, feeling the words out curiously as if wondering if they were true. Susan had laughed.

“You’re what... two weeks in?” 

“Is it obvious?”

Susan had made a noncommittal noise. “You’re in the jumper seat, look like you want to crawl out of your own skin, probably hate women, don’t want anyone to talk to you, but seem desperately lonely?”

“Fuck.”

“Don’t worry, the first three months I just stared around at everyone. Fucking hated the crying women. Like, how do they do that? Just come in and start sobbing and I couldn’t remember the last time I cried. Or would admit to crying. I just was so fucking mad. Like, sad? But also bone-deep lonely in a way I couldn’t explain to people. I’d just stand in a crowd of my friends and want to scream at them for not seeing that I was drowning. So, you know, a little weed, lotta Jim Beam, and I was good again.”

“Jim Beam is gross.”

“I will not have you disparage the love of my life that way,” Susan had snorted. “He was a dick. They’re all dicks in the end, I guess.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be telling me about how it all gets better and how I just need to love myself?”

“Would that work?” Susan had tilted her a look, tucking her long silver hair behind her ear. She’d had knotted knuckles, neatly manicured fingernails, and a ring on every finger. “Cause that seems like a pile of horse shit to me. Everything sucked when I first got sober. Lost my house, lost my job, lost my fuckbuddy, lost everything. People can sit here and sell you a pile of sunshine, but they’d be lying to you. You don’t get a perfect life; you get a life you can live.”

“Wow,” Rosa had muttered. “_Inspiring_.”

“Stayed sober.” Susan had shrugged. 

“Winning.”

Susan had paused, ducking her head for a moment before swiveling in the seat and looking straight at Rosa. “I love AA. AA saved my life. It’s not a life beyond my wildest dreams, but fuck all. It’s _mine_. Can you say that?” She’d searched Rosa’s face for a moment. “You ever want to talk? You call me.” Susan had given her a slip of paper with her number on it that had a phone number and note: _anytime, day or night. for when you start feeling important. _

Rosa pulled it out of her pocket when the electrical outlet stash had turned up empty. She’d glowered at the note and rolled her eyes, hopping the parapet to crawl back down the short hooked-top ladder to the fire escape. The metal structure rumbled loudly as she clambered down, boots chuffing a groan of metal on brick as she hustled, thumping down the last two steps and careening around to let down the bottom of the ladder. She could have just gone back in her open window, the peeled bits of latex paint coiled like pencil shavings on the floor under the sill. She’d been picking at the paint idly for a few days now before finally stealing one of the paring knives from Grover while he was distracted by chapter four again and hauled back up to cut through the accrued layers. 

Arturo had nailed it shut once, yelling indiscriminately in spanish as he tapped the spikes through the window frame into the sill. She’d been sitting with her arms crossed on the edge of the bed as he took a hammer to nail. She remembers the vague nauseated feeling of crying and the embarrassed enraged heat of her skin as she refused to watch and simply glared at the corner the entire time he’d lectured. He’d caught her sneaking out at twelve to go see her boyfriend and simply started yelling before exploding into action. She wasn’t Liz. She didn’t get the calm explanations. She fucked up. She found the loopholes. She was defiant. She pushed until he exploded. She had that effect on him. She’d learned well at her mother’s knee.

She’d sat on that bed for hours after he’d left, just silent and sick under the waves of emotion. Her dad had found her later. He’d knocked lightly on the door and said her name quietly. The door had creaked, it had needed oil and she had written all over the back in sharpie a month earlier and already wanted to paint over the poem and try again. He’d seemed smaller. She remembered the way he’d sat on the edge of her bed and stared at his open palms. “I’m sorry, Mija. It was wrong of me to lose my temper.” She remembered that she’d wished he’d simply stopped there. “But you’re too young for boys. They are dangerous. They are wolves. They want to eat you up.” He’d nodded a few times before he’d turned, face open and pleading. “It’s for your own good, Mija. I have to protect you.” 

She had done this to him, made him so full of fear and sadness that his broad shoulders shook as he cried. She’d pried the nails out of the window and her father had never been able to keep hold of her after that.

Now, she was standing in the alley behind the Crashdown. Roswell was a ghost town after midnight and she was content to haunt its edges. She’d been doing that for a decade already. Downtown Roswell was a quaint-looking square covered in federalist row buildings that contained a few apartments above a specific set of perfectly curated shops. There was the thematic bakery, the pizza parlour, the bookstore, the coffee shop, the diner, and the UFO Emporium flashing bright marquee lights across the empty pavement. She could count on one hand how many times she’d been kicked out of the jeweller that was next to a fancy clothing boutique that catered to rich women who preferred neutral tones and turquoise to black leather and teen angst. If she took a right she could make it to the bridge in the next hour, walking slowly along the muddy banks of the viaduct where the flood water pipes crisscrossed the town. She could go down and sit against the stone and stare at who she used to be. 

Her skin crawled, that tickling sort of emptiness that left her feeling unsettled and antsy. She’d pulled on her boots, her black jeans, and an oversized hoodie to keep her warm under the heavy black leather jacket. She’d considered a beanie but settled instead for the possibility of flipping the hood up against any sharp cold winds. Her bedroom stash was gone, the small town Saturday night raided, and Frederico had probably grabbed the stashes down at the crossroads and the end of the rail line that had been covered with a bike trail sometime in the last decade. She could head out to the river, but that was a walk she didn’t envy.

“Blue Flower it is,” she whispered to herself. Mimi and Maria DeLuca lived in a quaint federalist row brick building with white moulding and arched windows. It sat shoulder to shoulder with the industrial district that was starting to fill with gyms proclaiming cross fit perfection. She and Maria had painted the back wall of those buildings with sketches and early attempts at the stencil she’d finally used as the finished project. There was a small, green space before the steps that led up to the front door. Either side of the entrance carried bay windows that curved out toward the street. Higher up the windows were tucked into the wall, laden with curtains and white painted flower boxes. The flower boxes went fallow in the winter air, but in the spring overflowed with small, delicate-looking blue flowers with yellow hearts and thick round leaves. Mimi had prided herself on them, the way they grew for her after being transported from the middle east. 

Rosa had buried a small, metal canister under the bottom right corner of the building near where some of those same flowers had sprung up as volunteer plants in the soft, sandy dirt under the sidewalk, crawling along the cracks and clustering around the small scrubby trees planted by the beautification committee. She’d left it there untouched just in case, hoping she’d never have to dig it up. She’d never been able to lie to Mimi anyway. She wasn’t sure how she would be able to explain the dirt under her nails as she leaned into the comfort the woman gave her. If she went to the Blue Flower she was going to dig up her past and attempt something that could give her a brief shred of relief.

She should call Susan. She could almost hear Jim telling her to stop and turn it over: 

“You pray today?”

“No.”

“I don’t care if you think it’s bullshit, Rosa. You should give it a try. Doesn’t have to be God. Doesn’t have to be anything. Hell, it could be a fucking Giraffe for all I care. It just can’t be you.”

“Whatever,” she’d mutter into the phone, picking at the place where the vinyl was peeling away from the fabric of her fake Doc Martin boots. She wanted a pair of classic oxblood with high laces, but would settle for the kind that were non-slip and zipped up the side that she could afford at WalMart. The line would be quiet and she’d think about what it would taste like to call him Dad. She would think about the secrets they were keeping. 

“We’re only as sick as our secrets,” people would say in the meetings. She’d close her eyes and wonder if she was dying. She had so many secrets. 

This town seemed empty without Jim in it. It seemed strange that he wasn’t sipping some cold coffee in a styrofoam cup in his idling cruiser. She was used to him rolling to a stop where she was marking up a wall. She was used to the sound of his window coming down. They’d take a moment and she’d just lift her chin and her defiance. Jim Valenti wasn’t a handsome man, but he had a charm that made him likable, dimpled and charismatic. Kyle was growing into that part of him while carrying his mom in the sharp lines of his nose and jaw. She missed Jim. She could almost hear the way he would tilt his head and watch her like he wanted to say something real and true but just smiled instead.

He was dead and she was a ghost. It felt fitting. 

She looked around the quiet streets, the small pools of light from the streetlamps and tucked the headphones into her ears, closing her eyes at the lolling atmospheric beat of Fade Into You by Mazzy Star. She’d spent a good evening learning how to navigate the new music players and settled into Spotify and the 90’s based playlists. The iPhone was sleek and expensive feeling, but she tucked it into her back pocket and let the beat give her purpose, give her that brief moment of being alone and against the world, fighting and smiling through it as she stepped out of the shadows and onto the sidewalk.

The streets of Roswell felt different at night, full of an abject sort of longing and emptiness. The hanging canopies fluttered in the low winter wind and the decorations for the impending holidays were starting to go up in unlit clusters. The Gazebo in the center of the town square was a freshly-painted white in anticipation of the photo opportunities and the future Santa Claus meet and greet. The council had decorated it with small string lights and red ribbons. It was garish and quaint, the long, curled tails waving in the breeze. She wanted to go mark it up. She wanted to pick out her rose in black marker. She liked to leave bruises on the pretty facade of the town. She liked to remind them that it wasn’t always pure here. 

The Gazebo waved a ribboned goodbye as she passed, ignoring the call to mark up the fresh white paint. She reached, skimming her fingers along the brick, feeling the difference between the grain and the mortar as she closed her eyes and tilted her head back. The breeze was cold, but silky as it swept over her face to fling bits of her hair around. Roswell was quiet, dormant in the dark and there was a half-breath where the realization of being alone prickled sharply up her spine to crawl anxiously over her shoulders. She spun, sure for two breaths that someone was following her, and stared back the way she’d come. The Gazebo sat empty, the string lights swaying lightly and the canopies fluttered. She was alone and she reminded her heartbeat of that fact, exhaling and plucking one of the headphones out of her ear.

The silence wasn’t complete, a flat fabric noise of the canopies caught in time with the groan of a light pole swaying in the breeze. She could hear a television set from the sports bar a street over, the low murmur of voices under the staticky white noise. Roswell wasn’t empty; it just didn’t care about her in that moment. She heard a scuff behind her and whirled again, breath caught as she trembled. A paper bag scuffled in a small, shuffling circle where it was trapped in the doorway of a darkened boutique law firm. It battered drunkenly against the sidewalk and the wall, trapped in a small endless two step before Rosa darted forward and smashed it under the toe of her boot, staring down at it curiously.

“Very dangerous. _Bags_. Have to be careful.” 

Rosa shrieked. It was a half-swallowed noise in her throat as she startled hard and flailed, instinctively bracing and throwing a punch at where the warm tenor had materialized next to her. She connected, the shock of it rattling up her arm and into her shoulder even as the stranger reeled back and deftly caught the next blow that her panicked nerves sent. 

“Joder, lo siento, ¿pero en qué estabas pensando? ¡Gilipollas! Mother _fucker_.” She managed to still the rush of adrenaline that surged through her when the fight fell out from under her in an equally startling surge of embarrassed recognition. She flopped forward, bracing her hands against her knees and panted through the weak, watery feeling of relief. The handsome boy from the diner was blinking at her around a bloody nose and startled look. “_God_. Don’t _do_ that.”

“I thought you knew I was here,” he mumbled, taking a quick step backward and holding both hands up in surrender. He touched his nose gently, licking his top lip and stumbling as he almost fell off the curb. He flailed in an undignified flap of arms to keep his balance. Rosa snorted, fighting a burble of ridiculous amusement.

“Because you were _so_ obvious.”

“I said _hello_.”

“I didn’t _hear_ you.”

“I didn’t_ know_ that.” He frowned, pulling the front collar of his t-shirt to wipe at his nose and slant her a look that was equal parts annoyance and amusement from where he’d finally just stepped down into the street.

“_Obviously_.” Rosa was able to breathe again and she tucked her hands into the pockets of her coat, glaring up at the tall man in front of her. He blinked once and looked away quickly, turning his head to look down the street and then up at the sky. She was halfway between two alleys and he seemed like he’d just stepped out of a shadow. He thumbed at his nose gingerly, mouth twisted in a frown as he stood on the edge of the puddled streetlight, his other hand tucked into his pocket. He was nondescript in dark jeans over polished boots, a slim belt, black t-shirt and black, zippered jacket. Rosa was annoyed that she was stuck looking up at him; he was taller than her, thin, aquiline face with a faded silvering scar that cut over the bridge of his nose and through one dark brow. “You know it’s not a good idea to sneak up on girls alone in the dark, right? I might have had a taser.”

“Again,” he muttered, mouth moving quick at the jump of a muscle in his jaw before he rolled amused dark eyes down at her. “I didn’t think I was being sneaky. I _can_ be sneaky. That wasn’t it.”

“Are you threatening me now? Do I need to hit you again?”

“You could try,” he huffed, wetting his lips and turning his dark-eyed gaze on her. They stuck like that for a moment, wide eyed and panting around the way the moment was still echoing along their nerves. He broke it with a wry twist of mouth and a coy arch of his brow.

“Are you following me?” She tucked her hair behind her ear, frowning at him and trying not to be affected by the hint of a smile.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “You really aren’t supposed to tell people that.”

He smiled, bright and she had to look away, flushing at the way she reacted to it. He was stupidly handsome in a problematic way. “I don’t have much practice at subtle. They don’t let me out much.”

“Funny.” She bounced lightly on her heels before looking around. “So. Why are you following me?”

“I wanted to see you.” He looked confused for a moment before just shrugging and turning back down the street. She watched him scan the rooftops, the sidewalk, the empty green square at the center of town, and behind them before finding her gaze again. 

She started walking again, trying not to get caught up in the conversation, in the soft curious awareness that tickled along her nerves. “Here I am.” She sniffed. “You found me.”

“I did.” He simply turned and started walking next to her. It felt normal. It felt strange. She swallowed and glanced over at him, watching him in profile for a moment. 

“What are you doing?”

“Walking with you.” He said it like it was obvious. 

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know.” He didn’t break stride, just moved with her down the sidewalk, folding together easily in the dark. 

Roswell tucked them together on the sidewalk as she moved down the street. She could see them in the reflection of the windows as they passed. Rosa realized she had been wrong when she’d called his mouth plush, it was just delicately curved and sensual looking. He had a memorable face, handsome and hawkish with deep set dark eyes and high cheekbones. His hair was still cut short, choppy and unstyled like he’d simply taken clippers to it at regular intervals. He was thin, she could see the bones in the back of his hands but there was a power to him, something wiry and coiled that she wanted to pull close. She blinked, trapped in a heartbeat gone fast and scared - a sudden rush of adrenaline making her hyper-aware of the distance between them. It felt taut, full and shimmering with something she couldn’t place. 

“You know, most people wouldn’t go for a walk with a stranger,” she said after a long minute.

“Are you most people?” he asked. They both had their hands tucked deep in the pockets of their jackets, elbows brushing as they moved. He didn’t look over at her, eyes still absently scanning around as they walked.

“I’m Rosa.” She nodded once and turned, sticking a hand out to him with a candid formality. 

“Everyone calls me November.” He took her hand and she forced herself to stay still despite the sudden chaos that erupted in her chest. She was aware of so many things all at once: his hand was warm and dry, slipping softly against hers as he took her fingers. He had a firm grip, sure that she’d meet him halfway. He had soft brown eyes, nothing golden or magical about them, but thickly lashed and intent on her face. She wanted to hold his hand. She didn’t want to let go.

Rosa pulled her hand back and shoved it in her pockets for protection. “That’s a month, not a name.”

“I didn’t really get a choice in it,” he replied. She almost missed the way he stretched his hand with a quick shake before tucking it back in his pocket. “It was decided for me.”

“Where did you come from?” she asked, laughing around an incredulous eye roll.

“There.” He pointed behind them to the alley with a laugh. 

“You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you.”

“It’s really not intentional. I could tell you, but then they’d want me to kill you.” He shrugged. “And I don’t want that.”

“What? Are you a spy or something?”

“Or something,” he murmured, eyes crinkling up on a smile. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Whatever,” she snorted. “You’re being very mysterious for an Uber Driver.” She was proud of the reference. It sounded current.

“Okay, fine,” he sighed and wet his lips, pace in time with hers. She turned the corner on autopilot, watching him swing left with her. “Where are we going?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really,” he said. “As long as I’m with you.”

Rosa stopped, hanging her head and closing her eyes. “Are you serious?”

“What?”

She shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose before slanting him a look. “That was the cheesiest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. Aren’t you supposed to be, like, trying to be mysterious and suave?”

“Not on purpose,” he answered. He pulled a hand out of his pocket again and reached. It wasn’t a fast motion, something she could have stepped back from, stepped away from, stopped. He touched the mole at the corner of her eye, fingers light and Rosa couldn’t explain the way the touch seemed to flicker bright through her, chiming something aching and sweet under her ribs. “Would it work?”

“What?”

“Being mysterious and suave? I can study. Romeo would be better at it.”

“Romeo was a tool,” Rosa replied, voice hushed as she tried not to move, tried not to startle the beautiful boy who was touching her face with wonder.

He snorted, shocked into a bright laugh and she wanted to step into it, curl it around her shoulders and pull him tight to feel the way it stuttered in his stomach, stretched his ribs. “I won’t tell them you said that.”

“Thanks?”

He swallowed and she shivered when he caught a stray strand of her hair between his fingers, feeling the texture before letting it slide over his knuckles. This close she could see that he had a lacework of scars just under his jaw and across his collarbones. She wondered if he’d been in a car accident. There was a guy in the rooms with a pattern of scars just like that where he’d gone through a windshield after plowing his car into an underpass. “You’re welcome.” He swallowed, and there was a moment of bewildered heat that flickered in his eyes, and they swayed closer before he stiffened and turned to stare back the way they’d come. 

“Oh fuck,” she managed, coughing around the way her heart seemed to swell and ducked out of his touch, out of the heat of his gaze, and started walking fast down the street. “No. Okay? No. I don’t have time for this.”

He jogged lightly to catch up to her where she was plowing ahead. “What does time have to do with it?”

“No. Don’t be cute. I can’t right now, okay?” She shook her head and kept glaring at the pavement, freckled with old gum and the stains of a pedestrian crowd. The UFO Emporium marquee was alight in front of them, sparkling against the night sky and tossing indiscriminate light to stroke over the parked cars and the shop fronts. “No boys. I don’t have time for this shit.”

“No boys.” 

“Yes.”

“I approve.” His voice was low and pointed. “Just me.”

She whirled, tossing her arms out and widening her eyes at him. “That means you! You’re the boy!”

“I’m not a boy.” He frowned.

“You’re trouble!”

He paused, thinking. “True.”

Rosa wished she could categorize the noise she made as anything other than frustrated and sharp, but sometimes the truth was just simple. She shook her head, staring at him. “What are you even doing? I’m a mess! I’m trying to go dig up a stash I buried ten years ago so I can get fucked up and not have to think about the fucking insanity that is my life. I don’t have time for you to just be cryptic and cute-”

“You think I’m cute?”

“Not the take away you should be getting from this.”

“It’s the one that I like.”

She threw her hands up and flailed incoherently at the empty street before exhaling in defeat. “I’m a _mess_.”

“I clean up messes. It’s what I’m good at.”

“Man-”

“_November_. Call me November.”

“Still a month.”

“It’s my name.”

“Fine. _November_.” She hated the way his name felt warm and rich in her mouth, like she could roll it around on her tongue until she was drunk on it. She hated that right then she didn’t feel antsy. She didn’t feel restless and discontent, just aware of him. She felt alight with the awareness of the shadow of his stubble, with wanting to feel the taut, wiry line of him pressing her back into the brick and kissing her until the world faded away. Until her Dad wasn’t disappointed in her. Until Jim Valenti wasn’t dead. Until her sister wasn’t older than her and brilliant in a way she would never compare. She wanted him to touch her, to bounce her back with a startled groan that caught against his teeth as they both simply distilled into something simple: something hungry and endless that she could drown in. She mouthed wordlessly, watching him watch her like she was special. He watched her with a dubious sort of fondness that she didn’t like but didn’t know she needed. “God. Stop looking at me like that.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Look _away_.”

“I don’t _want _to.”

Rosa Ortecho was nineteen and dumbfounded as she stared across the short distance to where he was watching. He was tall, an easy six foot with slim hips and a mouth pulled into a confused flat line as he glared back at her. “That’s... that’s not an answer.”

“It’s all I’ve got.” He took a step forward and Rosa took a step back, frowning up at him as he paced forward again. She was moving back until the sidewalk ended at the building behind her, the glass catching against the leather of her jacket, cold through the fabric of her jeans. He moved closer, looking down and matching her glare with one of his own. He swallowed and she curled her fingers into fists in her pockets to keep from reaching to feel the bob of his throat. “Do you feel it too?”

“No,” she lied. He was so close, all angles and heat where she tried to find someplace safe to focus. She couldn’t look at his skin, his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the unflinching warmth of his eyes, the soft-looking tufts of his hair. She settled on the freckle just next to his nose before her traitorous eyes found the matched constellation on his bottom lip and just under the scar over the bridge of his nose. He seemed to be pleading with her even as he pulled his hands out of his pockets, giving up on pretense and pausing before sliding his palms to cup her face. “_Yes_.”

She wanted to kiss him. Rigorous honesty, they taught her in the rooms. She could lie to the world, to herself, but it would only make her sicker. She wanted. She sighed, thinking of the way Susan would talk about addiction as a disease of more. She was an endless need that he would just fall into and be devoured by. She would chew him up and ask for seconds, thirds, pulling pieces off of him like she was picking apart a croissant of rich, aching feeling. 

“This is dangerous,” he whispered.

“You have no idea,” she answered, wetting her lips, helpless to the way his eyes skimmed over her face, unsure and startled even as his mouth dropped open and went soft. “My dad chased the last boy around the diner with a knife. What are you doi-” She had that lightning strike moment of realization that he was going to kiss her right before his lips found hers. It startled her, caught in a sharp inhale and freezing there to ache as it sparked wild, reckless heat and want through her. 

She’d met Frederico at thirteen and kissed him behind the potted plant outside the food court at the mall. He’d stolen her a keychain and it had seemed like the proper payment. She’d let him kiss her, suffering through the wet slobbery kisses at first until she’d just started bossing him around. They’d been so drunk the first time she’d had sex it had felt like throwing away something useless. He’d made soft noises above her and she’d gone cold and distant. Frederico kissed her like it was something he was supposed to do. She’d kissed him like a chore.

This was different. It slotted into place inside the space between an exhale and his name. This was what everyone had been talking about. This made her breathless and necessary, needy and mewling under the shocking sweet heat that smoothed into her bloodstream. This was better than getting fucked up, this wasn’t numbness. This was _lightning_.

He kissed her soft like it was a question. She answered it like a song. 

He pulled back, resting his forehead against hers. He was shaking, a soft tremble that surprised her. “Is it supposed to feel like this?” he asked her. 

“I hope so,” she answered, laughing a little as she let herself relax in inches. His words took a moment to settle in her mind gone mushy with sweet, gold want. She stiffened when they did. “Wait. Have you never?”

“I told you, I don’t get out much.”

“God,” she exhaled. “Did you live in a cave?”

“More of a cage, really.” He nodded, nose sliding against hers. 

Rosa let her eyes fall shut as she relaxed into the rippling heat that spread golden and floated along her bones as he nosed lower, tipping her head back to press soft, loose-lipped kisses to her neck. He felt herself uncurling, relaxing and going loose as she pulled her hands out of her pockets and slipped them under the hem of his jacket. She was sinking into this, sinking into the sweet softness that was curling between them. She could lose herself in it. It would be easy. She could let this-

“No. Fuck. God damn it.” She startled, pushing at him and pushing him away. “I don’t. God. Of course.” She ducked under his arm and stormed away, shaking her head at herself. “Genial, Rosa. Un chico guapo te hace caso, and what do you do? Llevas de vuelta como treinta segundos, y ya estás tirando todos tus avances por la borda. Don't let this distract you. Think, Rosa. ¿Qué haría Jim?”

“What just happened?”

“I came out of your magical hot boy powers.”

“That really is not the power I have.”

“Whatever. I’m not doing this. I’m not doing this again. I need to just focus on me. On my sobriety.” She whirled, glaring at him as she stabbed a finger to where he pulled up short. “You. You are a distraction and temptation and-”

“November?”

“Yes. No. _Fuck_. Stop it.”

“I am not doing anything.” 

“That’s the problem.”

“Should I start doing something?”

“No.”

“This is very confusing. I hope...” he seemed to trail off, voice going quiet as he finished the thought. “... you know that.”

She threw her hands out and closed her eyes, trying to find a moment that made sense as she took a slow steadying breath. “I’m going-” 

“Rosa,” he whispered, interrupting her in time with the hand he curled tightly around her wrist. She inhaled sharply, shivering at the hot spark of something dark and delicious that echoed under her skin. She gaped at him, angry and delighted, excited at the feel of his fingers and angry at the interruption. She frowned, or tried to frown around the way she wanted to smile at him, could feel it lingering at the edges of her mouth. This was a rush and she already wanted _more_.

“Nov-” she cut off, realizing he’d gone completely still, hand tight on her wrist and trapping her in place as he stared over her shoulder. It felt strangely bereft to have lost his attention and she started to turn only to be tugged quickly as he moved past her, slipping around her so deftly it felt like a dance. 

She glanced over his shoulder to see what had caught his attention even as he lifted his arms to keep her behind him. The sidewalk had been empty, but now there were two women standing just outside the circle of light the streetlamp threw, shaded under one of the short, soft-barked Crepe Myrtle the city had planted sometime while she was dead. She squinted, trying to pick out more detail. One of the two women was tall and slender with short wedge-cut brown hair that curled around her cheekbones. She had her arms folded and Rosa could nearly feel the waves of disapproval that pulsed from the sharp frown gone petulant with a mild pout. She was pretty in an androgynous sort of way. She had the same sort of outfit November wore, with dark jeans and a black t-shirt tucked into the front over a slim belt, sturdy black boots, and a soft looking black bomber jacket. Next to her, the other woman was incredibly petite with her hair caught back in a braid under a warm looking beanie. 

“Why are you-?” November’s voice was flat, timber gone careful as he spoke. 

“You were late. It’s not like you. I thought you’d need... assistance.” The taller woman tilted her head and Rosa felt the weight of her gaze. It was like being watched by a lazy hawk where it perched on the electrical wires. “But, I see you have _company_. Hello.”

“Hi!” The smaller woman sounded young and Rosa revised her earlier assessment at the sweet soprano, figuring the girl must be in her early teens. She watched her wave a wild arm, smile gone crooked and bright as she leaned her whole body into the motion. Rosa revised again, making the girl even younger.

“She’s not important.”

“Your tongue in her mouth says otherwise.”

“Whis-.”

“Careful,” she interrupted, shaking her head with a soft tsk. “You know better. Aimee, remember? _Marc_ is with the car. I suggest you get there. Leave the treat behind.”

“I’m still Jenny, right?” The younger girl looked up at where the taller woman, Aimee, was watching November with a single-minded focus.

“Yes. Why don’t you help _Nicholas_ remember where we parked. Long day. Robert is already on his way. Wouldn’t want to miss it, now would we?”

“Don’t do this.” 

“What’s happening?” Rosa heard her voice, it squeaked out of a throat gone cold with fear.

“Clean up your mess, Nicholas.” The woman’s voice seemed heavy with a threat. “Or I will.”

November nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Nothing flashy,” the woman replied, tone going flat with annoyance. She reached, turning the little girl by the shoulder. “Come on. I don’t like to keep him waiting.”

“That’s why you’re his favorite,” the little girl chirped, shaking her head and starting to walk away.

“Yes,” the woman nodded, a smile that seemed strangely intimate flickering on her mouth before folding away again. “That’s why.”

Rosa was shaking, stomach knotted with fear and November watched them go, the line of his shoulders defensive and tight until they turned the corner out of sight. He didn’t seem to relax, simply tucked his foot behind him and swiveled to face her. “Hey, look at me.”

“What the fuck? What the actual fuck?” Rosa’s eyes were wide; she knew she must look terrified as she stared up at him. He was watching her with a small crease between his brows, hands soft as he cupped her face and held her gaze. He was close, warm under where she’d tangled her fingers in the fabric of his shirt reaching for something safe. “November? Nicholas. What the fuck? Is that your name? What the-”

“Look at me,” he whispered and she caught in his stare, sinking into it with a soft sigh. It felt long, delayed and swollen before she knew she was forgetting something. She was forgetting something important. 

Roswell New Mexico was a ghost town at night, the streets empty and the Crepe Myrtle rustling dryly in the crisp winter wind that danced down the asphalt and out into the dark. Rosa was standing outside the UFO Emporium, the lights flickering through the cycle and flashing twice before starting again. She shook herself, glancing back and then down at her feet. She’d come outside for a reason. It settled under her skin, the discontent, that restless feeling that would send her crawling to the roof, would send her down to search the spot on the riverbank next to the sandbags for the piece of rose quartz she used to hide her stash.

She frowned, touching her mouth lightly, and stared at the crack in the cement before looking behind her like she was expecting someone to be standing there. She exhaled shakily, tucking her hair behind her ear, and shifted. She was _forgetting_ something.

“Blue flower,” she whispered, remembering where she’d decided to go but not remembering how she’d walked seven blocks between then and now. She could feel a terror in her bones, the way it rattled slightly before she glanced to the side, eyes catching on one of the signs taped to the front window of the UFO Emporium.

NOVEMBER EVENTS

She had a flash of warm brown eyes, a soft smile, and an explosion of sweet heat like the way a crush seemed to want to melt her spine from her body and leave her puddled like burnt sugar. She touched her mouth again, feeling the slight rawness of stubble burn. The memory slapped back into place like a rubber band. 

“You want to see me again?”

“I do.” She lifted her head to watch him, squaring her jaw against the fear. 

“I’ll find you.” He nodded and she knew he was telling the truth, knew it in her bones. She watched him back up a step, back out of the light that they’d been standing in and turn, jogging with a light gait to disappear back around the corner the others had slipped down. She watched until the shadows swallowed him again.

The memory flickered over her brain and she checked the time. She’d left the house two hours ago. How long had she been simply standing on the sidewalk staring at nothing? She coughed around the way her lungs twisted up and sat sharply like her knees finally realized they couldn’t hold the weight of that moment. 

She needed to do three things in quick order. She needed to breathe. She needed to go home before she unearthed the ancient stash. She needed to call Susan and ask her to be her sponsor.

“Fuck.”

**

The Project Shepherd bunker was usually quiet, tucked underground with secrets and a rigid aesthetic of rebar and cement. The main room was oddly shaped, the beams cutting at an angle across the ceiling like the ribs of a strange mechanical beast. The main doors would hiss open, a tuft of controlled air flouncing into the space and dissipating. She wasn’t entirely sure why, but appreciated the modified, controlled room. It was perfect for the experiments she was running, cool and dry without the interference of indirect sunlight. She had appropriated the table on the left of the main array, taking the steps to make sure each sample was settled under the repurposed lamps. She’d bossed Kyle and Michael into the set up, placing two small refrigerators against the far wall, the microscope, thermal spectrometer, the agitator, and several other bits of necessary equipment placed around that second level. She’d started the five initial tests that day, the samples set in sequence while another unofficial experiment was processing under the manufactured UV lights. The mild purple haze caught the deeper blue feel of the room, lengthening the shadows and picking a sickly green out of the military paint.

She’d sprawled her paperwork over the main table that divided the space evenly. It was at least eight feet long and heavy, the top at least an inch thick and bound to the metal frame with thin ribbed steel. The chairs were a mismatched set of fifties style vinyl and metal rolling chairs and smooth wood captains chairs. She had started a set of experiments to pull the DNA from the initial samples. Each experiment needed a set of static data and a time control so she’d hauled her ass out to the abandoned base that morning, careful of the set of numbers Alex had issued her as her own code as a secondary layer of security after the palm data.

The base was a dilapidated memory of when Roswell had been a functioning area for the military, a healthy branch of the science MI and weapons testing divisions of at least three branches of the armed forces. After the end of the Korean War, most of the funding had been redirected and the main MI facility had moved one state over, but New Mexico was still littered with the memory of military presence. The four active air force bases were massive, sprawling over immense acreage. She’d considered a job with Kirtland before dismissing it and taking an internship outside of Pittsburg. She parked under an oak that had heaved part of the sidewalk away from the ground as it shoved thick roots across the space. The parking lot was pitted, cracks spreading and sprawling outward. The buildings had plants in the gutters and a speckling of lichen that grew on the south side of the buildings. She’d pulled an entire strip of paint from the side of one of the empty bunk houses, dropping it quickly and wiping her hand on her jeans while Michael and Kyle had bickered over the bundles of gear she’d packed into the back of her Subaru. 

The car was beautiful, sparkling under a fresh wash with neat black tires and a soft, moss green paint. She’d bought it two days ago, finally saying goodbye to the rented Toyota and patting the soft seats of her new car with loving fingers. She liked that the back seats folded down, expanding the space for storage and had cleared her throat at the dealership, thinking of other uses for the extra space.

“Fascinating,” she’d mumbled that morning, reaching to trace the knob of bone in Max’s wrist, letting her fingertips walk quickly along his skin before hopping to tap the end of his nose. “You have hands.”

“I do.”

She’d just been waking up, stretching against the soft flannel of his sheets and ignoring the way her hair was tangling under her cheek as she blinked sleepily at him. He’d piled a few pillows between himself and the wall, propped up and reading. She’d crawled out of a dream curled against him, head tucked against his side. She had woke humming at the soft feel of his thumb stroking absent and light against her temple before pausing to turn the page. “I have hands, too,” she’d muttered, nosing against his skin and shivering into a stretch that slid her palm over his stomach and around to curl against his hip and squeeze. 

“You do. You are incredibly astute in the mornings.” He’d smirked, glancing over at her and then back to his book.

“What time did you get in? I gave up and went to bed.”

“I saw that,” he’d muttered. “It was late, didn’t want to wake you. Domestic down on Laurel.” He’d shrugged. “Ended up entering a frying pan as evidence. That was new.”

“Mmmm, work bad. Go back to where you say some other big fancy words.” She’d grinned, tilting her head back, and eyed him speculatively. 

Max had glanced over from his book and there was something utterly charming about the way he wouldn’t smile fully, always twisting it around the edges of his mouth and waggling his eyebrows at her. He’d quirked his mouth at her and she’d wanted to drag him on top of her by the ear just to hear his startled joyful laugh again. “Luminescent.”

She’d wrinkled her nose, feigning discontent as she slipped her ankle over his shin to tuck her cold foot against the warmth of his calf. “Too easy. I thought you were wordy, Max Evans.”

“Is this a challenge?” He’d tucked a thumb at the crease of pages and shifted down to look at her. He had a way of watching her that felt like a physical touch, it caught her breath and she sighed quietly into the feel of it.

“You scared?”

He’d touched his tongue to his top lip and twisted to set the book on his night stand. She’d noted that he tucked a coin quickly into the pages so he wouldn’t lose his place. She liked that. She liked him. She’d wanted him to tuck a thumb between her thighs and flushed hotly at the thought. Instead, he’d swallowed, fervent as he set a large warm hand at the curve of her hip and watched as he slid it along her skin. “I don’t have a tendency for sesquipedalian loquaciousness,” he’d whispered. “It makes me look ridiculous.” 

“I don’t even know what that means,” she’d managed, flushing hotly as he’d tucked his hand at the back of her left thigh and pulled her easily against him. She wasn’t used to feeling delicate, but he made her feel like a carefully painted teacup in his hands. “But I know where I want you to say it again.” She’d arched an eyebrow and bit her lip when she felt his cock twitch with interest against her.

“You’re using me for my vocabulary,” he’d muttered, teasing even as he reached between them to twist his wrist and reach. Her eyes had rolled at the line he drew, gentle and perfect against her. She hadn’t been able to stop the moan that rippled out of her when he touched a light circle around her clit. 

“Are you mad?”

He’d sighed, smile going helplessly real, teeth a little crooked around the dimple at the edge of his mouth. He was stunning, a candid and casual sort of sexy that felt rumpled and lived in - he felt like a bed left messy from a sweet sunday of sex and syrupy kisses. He’d flipped the sheets over his shoulder, worming lower in the bed and pushing her onto her back as he settled his broad shoulders between her thighs. “No.” He’d kept the soft circle of touch before leaning forward and setting his mouth where his fingers had been. 

She’d carded her fingers into his hair, fascinated by the soft wave of it as it rolled against her knuckles. She closed her eyes, rolling her hips against his mouth. “Max,” she’d breathed, swallowing around a cracking moan as he’d paused his tongue to sip delicately at her. “Do... do the thing?” She’d pulled up from her core to look down at him. “I want to feel you feel me.”

His face had shuttered for a moment and she’d had a second of awkward confusion as he smeared a look that felt forced over his face before it melted into real. He’d licked his lips and she’d been startlingly aware that he could taste her in that moment. “You don’t need it to know how I feel about you,” he’d answered after a moment, admonishing with a soft whisper. She hadn’t meet his eyes, disappointed. “Liz?”

“No, it’s okay.” She’d smiled, smoothing her fingers against his earnest face. “You’re right.” He was. She’d come with a harsh cry, face down in his sheets with his hand tight at the back of her neck, fucked with a single-minded focus that left her flushed and squirming at the memory. He’d collapsed against her back, soft tremble running through him that she could feel. He’d whispered her name like a prayer. 

She’d closed her eyes and let it be enough. Not everything had to be world ending.

They’d been having coffee across from each other in the kitchen, eschewing the table for having her perched on the counter top while he ate a bowl of cereal next to her. She liked sitting like that, liked that she could lean over and kiss his hair, catch his mouth, watch his profile as she let her mind wander through possible ways to differentiate the outcome of the serum for a modified result. She wanted to refine its efficacy and that would require a more settled cellular model.

“I can hear you thinking,” he’d muttered, licking the sweet cereal milk off the back of his spoon and pointing it at her.

“Wait, for real?”

“No, but you get this crease between your eyebrows when you’re dismantling things in your head.” He’d sniffed, shrugging before shoveling another bite into his mouth. 

She had felt the flat look she’d tossed him and secretly loved the small cheeky grin he’d handed back. He’d swallowed and leaned over, bumping her head up slightly with his nose so he could kiss her in the simple morning sunlight. They’d seemed to settle into something soft edged and domestic, curled together and dancing around his house. She’d leaned back against him when he slipped behind her in the shower, relaxed and loose-limbed as he shampooed her hair. She’d thrown a pillow at a casual barb after she’d wriggled into one of his shirts to wander around his bedroom, watching him catch it with a laugh and set it back on the bed. He kept a hand on her, touch like a lifeline as they moved. He’d learned to dance while she was gone. She tried not to be oddly disappointed that she wasn’t the one to truly teach him.

“I’m thinking about how to make sure that I can identify any instances of cell degeneration before it happens. I hate to say it, but the data from Project Shepherd is nearly inspired in some cases. The data alone on the response rate for electrical discharge in cell walls and the way t-”

“Do you need more samples?” he’d asked, glancing over at her. “Or are what you have enough.”

“It’s enough for now. Michael gave a lot while Isobel was in the pods that I can still work with. Mostly, I’m worried about the degeneration of Noah’s blood. I mean, it’s not like I thought I would have to keep it. I only wanted to see if he had the same squamous epithelial, but I didn’t think I’d need to do a DNA test to prove identification,” she’d muttered, frowning behind her coffee mug that she’d left in his kitchen. “Short sighted, I guess.”

“I am utterly shocked at your lack of foresight.” Max had shaken his head, moving to rinse his bowl in the sink before stacking it in the dishwasher. He’d turned, palming her knees and edging his hips between her thighs as he watched her. “Liz.” He’d ducked, holding her eyes until she was looking directly at her. “You saved my life. I think you can be a little kinder to yourself.” He’d nodded, dropping his forehead against hers. “You’ve done more than anyone has ever done for me and my family. I think it’s okay if you can’t identify Noah’s samples more clearly.”

“Max Evans,” she’d whispered. “Are you doubting me?”

“Never.”

“Good. Because I intend to be able to identify each of you individually and annotate my findings so hard.”

“Sexy science stuff.”

“Sexy science stuff,” she’d agreed, turning at the way he glanced up at the sound of a car pulling up outside. “That your ride?”

“Yeah, Cam said she’d pick me up on the way this morning.” He’d paused, face concerned as he leaned back. “You’re okay with her being here? You’d tell me, right?”

“She’s your partner,” Liz had told him. “We’re all adults. You and Kyle will have to learn to deal with it, too.”

“Slightly different situation,” he’d muttered, taking a step back to snag his hat off the peg he kept it on and slinging his belt over his shoulder.

Liz had tilted her head, squinting at him. “Is it though?”

“Table for later discussion?” 

She’d kissed him as agreement before hopping off the counter and getting ready for the day. She kept his shirt, liking the way it smelled like him and draped over her wrists. It kept her warm in the bunker, hidden from the sun and chilly in the artificial lights.

She was supposed to be checking the initial stranding in the salt water solution for the first set of DNA instances, but was crawling on hands and knees under the large array Alex used for his decryption coding. She was trying to be patient, to wait until he’d expressly given her permission to access the data files outside the small set she’d requested for the initial baseline determinants. She was trying to be patient, but it was too quiet. She could hear the tick of the fans in the ceiling vents. She could hear the whir of hard drives in the machines along the wall. She was almost sure she could hear the noise the lights in the array made when they flickered on and off at random. She was going to lose her mind. Of course, Alex and Kyle hadn’t installed speakers. Of course, they had just walked into this bunker and made it their own turnkey. They were bachelors. It made sense that they’d just accepted that the bunker would stay green and blue and cement and boring.

Liz Ortecho was different. She’d brought her Sonos speaker and a will to live.

So, she was on hands and knees, marveling mildly at the lack of dust as she rooted around for a simple plug. She nearly banged her head on the table when she whooped in delight when she found it before frowning again when the larger power supply block wedged at an angle and wouldn’t plug properly. She glanced around, following the trail of a few of the power cords into the backs of the computer and then one smaller one to a desk light. She unplugged it, muttering to herself in spanish until she settled the power block. The speaker lit up, a warm melodious sound smoothing out of it to echo slightly. She grinned, patting the plug like it was a good dog before scooting out from under the desk.

There was another fifteen minutes before she needed to turn the secondary data samples, rotating them even as the tertiary rattled lightly in the long chugging crank of the agitator. She could use the time to start annotating the initial chromosomal unfurlings, but decided to wave her phone around the space instead, setting the tonal quality of her sonos before settling in to find the perfect Spotify playlist for her mood. She’d fallen down the rabbit hole of 90’s themed playlists when the timer on the fourth experimental data tray dinged, startling her out of the oppressive silence and into hitting play. 

I Want You by Third Eye Blind kicked out of the speakers, the hissing beat and click tap of tempo echoing a little through the open cement and rebar space until the speaker autocorrected and found the right spatial gradient. She danced her way across the floor, shimmying as she hopped up the steps to pull the tray out and click on the light at the base of her microscope. She prepped the slide, taking a moment to look at the test tube with the sample she’d managed to take from the sleeve of her lab coat. 

Noah’s blood had initially appeared with that bright flicker of charge around the cell walls, vibrant and kaleidoscopic. When she’d first seen it on Max’s sample she’d been in awe of it, the way it seemed so impossible and beautiful at the same time, the structure mildly different behind the initial shock of the anodic charge on the sample. 

She’d managed to narrow down to one workable theory as to why the pollen interacted so distinctly with the alien biology - the pollen carried an anion electrical charge that cancelled out the anode charge of their cells. It was simple really, elegant. The plant had developed that style of genetic pollination to catch against the fine hairs of a type of bee that was native to that region of Libya. She wished she’d paid more attention in the chance botany class she’d sat through during her undergrad, but she’d been focused on the simple and direct line to the life she was sure she should be leading.

The sample looked wildly different now, the cell walls degrading and collapsing under the spread of something that spiderwebbed along the edges of the slide. She frowned, sucking her teeth and adjusted the focus knob, trying to pinpoint the edge of the obtrusion. The cells were crumbling and losing cohesion, a swampy morass of cytoplasm and what looked like might have been ribosomes. There was something that was eating away at the cells, something that was sticking in the back of her brain. She knew what this sort of thing looked like, but it was sitting electric on the tip of her tongue.

“What the fuck?” she whispered, turning and staring at the other samples. She knew she’d seen something like this, but it had been slightly different. She just had to _think_. She got up, pacing a few steps and tapping her hands against her thighs in time with the beat that poured through the space. She could do this. She could figure it out. 

The center table was still littered with the files Alex had sent Michael in the weeks before they’d managed to bring Max back. She’d spent fervent and fevered hours in the bunker under the airstream, reading through the data sets that some scientists in the fifties had carefully annotated. She had read through the strings of information about the cellular reactions and the difference between the fluctuation anodyne charges so that it could nearly explain the smaller dynamic control the alien biology had over the electric current. She’d seen something about this kind of cellular degeneration. There was one file with the redacted subject name and the blurred photo in black and white, like a copy of a copy of a copy in terrible pixelation.

She shrieked, hopping down from the upper level to sprint to the table, digging through the files. “Come on, come on.” She was still digging when she realized that the music had switched to the utterly happy strains of Hootie and the Blowfish, pushing the speed of her frantic searching to a joyful major chord harmony. 

“Oh my god, _no_. No, no. _No_.” She scrambled for her phone, pausing the music as she started smearing the folders across the table like a deck of cards, looking for the thicker folder that spoke about the subject who’s control seemed nearly-

Something was beeping. Something was beeping and she couldn’t focus around the insistent chirp that seemed to flit out into the silence. The files were half-opened, a couple of loose pages fluttering in the chug of processed air as she spun in a circle. The beep seemed to echo off the ceiling and bounce around the room as she took a few steps to the left, following it before hearing it more clearly behind her. She crept through the empty room, focused inneringly on the disruption, tiptoeing to keep the sound to the slow blur of hard drives and fans. She was paused, hunched and craning her neck to tilt her left ear speculatively for the source. It chimed again, to her right and she hurried a few steps in that direction, hands out defensively against the way she had gone utterly aware and tense, narrowing her eyes at the pile of wires under the desk Alex usually sat behind. 

Again, and she leapt forward with a cry, pointing at the small black square that was barely visible in the bottom right monitor. She touched it, feeling a small indent before leaning and accidentally bumping the mouse, sending the entire array that was Alex’s playground alight. The screens were scrolling through a string of code except for the bottom right that had a small command box that was flashing in time with the intermittent beeps. She looked around, a small creep of realization and intent crawling up her spine.

It wasn’t hers. She shouldn’t. It wasn’t hers. She _shouldn’t_.

Liz sat in the chair with a squawk of metal on metal and clicked the box, watching three of the screens switch to a different data set. She skimmed the first, frowning at her complete lack of understanding, the coding too complex before moving to the next, a stack of files slowly accruing with time of death listed at the top. The number of deceased subjects was startling, rising in a slow flicker as another file opened and layered on top of the previous. She swallowed, staring at lifetimes of murder masquerading as science, bones gone cold as her mouth dropped open. She clicked to minimize that monitor and the file underneath was something about a project Aestrea, another file labeled as another project, and then another. She found herself skimming easily through the non-encrypted information, mind reeling at the sheer focus and sprawl of the underlying resources of Project Shepherd.

She’d found a file about the different attributes some of the aliens showed, the refractory period between uses, the toll it took on their physical forms and how certain types of electrical activity could rebound and improve the process of recovery. She found herself paging slowly through a listing that showed one subject’s ability to recreate their cell structure, mimicking something nearby to change shapes. She blinked, peering at the black and white photo of a gaunt child with close-cropped hair and dark bruising circles under his eyes. “Oh,” she breathed, tilting her head at the realization that she knew this child, this man.

The next file showed the way the child’s cell structure degenerated when cut off from the electrical core of his own body. Some small part of her hid from the fact that this data needed to be parsed with pain, shaved from a live body. She gasped, covering her mouth at the sight of a similar soup of cell to the one sitting on the slide in her microscope. “Levi, no.”

She hit print, clicking rapidly through the next few files that gave her more and more detailed analysis of that specific patient’s cell structure until she found the certificate of termination. She pushed back from the computer, staring at the face of a dead man, eyes closed and gaunt with fresh cuts criss-crossing his scalp. Levi was a dead body on paper. She was about to start digging deeper into the files Alex had separated off into a secondary drive when the doors cracked open with a loud hiss.

“Fuck!” She tripped against the chair as she scrambled to hide what she’d been doing. It wasn’t hers, she shouldn’t look. She was still trying to catch the back of the chair, her balance, and slap the monitor off when she glanced back. Michael simply palmed his black hat and raised his eyebrows at her.

“Liz. I’d ask what you’re doing,” he drawled, ticking his chin to the side and gesturing to all of her with his hat. “But that seems rhetorical.”

“I’m not-”

“You _clearly_ are.”

“Okay, so I am.”

“I’m listening,” he replied, jogging down the steps and crossing to glance at the mess on the table top and then out to take in the lit microscope, the slow swirl of the agitator, the blinking cursor and scroll of data on the monitors even as Liz feigned casual and simply sat on the desk with a sigh.

“How much do you trust Levi?” It seemed like a good place to start.

**

The call had come in sometime past four, the day slipping out of the white light of noon and into the slower shadows of late afternoon. She’d watched Max slip around his desk and into Sheriff Valenti’s office, a quick, nearly silent conversation as her old partner leaned forward, hand braced on their boss’ desk and held her eyes. He nodded once after she seemed to think for a minute and relax. Jenna Cameron wasn’t sure how she felt about this new and improved Max Evans, but she’d taken the coffee he’d handed her and listened to him rattle anxiously around the precinct for long enough. 

Their office was starting to feel like home again after she’d spent part of the morning refilling her old desk and filing away the paperwork that Max only finished when she finally just shoved it under his hands with a frown. He was distracted and fidgety. It wasn’t a good look and she had a few years of reliable experience that said they were about to get into something they shouldn’t. Max manic was never good. He was too moral and too caught up in the values of his head to make rational decisions when his energy ramped too high. She’d usually suggest a quick afternoon rounder to take the edge off, but she was done with that, done with him.

Someone else could smooth his feathers.

She frowned when he smiled brightly at her and tossed her the keys to one of the SUV’s that the precinct kept in the garage. They usually just took one of the regular patrol cars, a sleek Ford mustang that had been modified for police work. Today, he snagged his white hat and his coffee as he brushed past her and out into the hall to wait for the elevators.

“I’m on desk duty, Evans,” she’d called, staring at the keys and then back to where Sheriff Valenti was sitting behind her desk with a slightly dazed look. 

“Not anymore,” he called back. “Come on. Call out for some strange activity at the edge of State Route 82.” 

“That’s a hell of a drive, Evans.”

“Chavez County is bigger than just Roswell.”

“Did you really just explain my job to me?” Jenna shook her head, frowning darkly at him as she caught up to where he was moving as the elevator doors dinged open.

“It wasn’t mansplaining,” he muttered. “It was motivation. I have a _feeling_.”

She followed him into the elevator, pushing the button for the ground floor and tucked the SUV keys into her pocket. “We don’t operate on hunches, Evans. This isn’t a seventies buddy cop television show. We act on evidence.”

He thinned his mouth, shooting her a casually tired look of resignation. “I know that, Cam. But-”

“Jesus,” she sighed, turning away to stare at the closed doors. “If you start talking about your gut, I may have to shoot you.”

“Now who’s being emotional?”

“One,” she started, holding up a quick hand to tick her points on long fingers. “Never call a woman emotional or you will _actually_ be shot. Two,” she paused, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Is this a you-know-what sort of feeling or just a general I-get-to-go-play-cops-and-robbers type feeling?”

Max Evans was taller than her and oddly bowlegged like an honest to god cowboy. He lolled back against the elevator wall and thought with a physical force around where he’d hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. “I just... it feels like something I should be doing.”

Jenna sighed and closed her eyes as the elevator dinged, doors opening to the quiet lobby of a small town Sheriff’s Department. “Save me.”

“I’ll get you some of those chicken tamales you like so much. As a bonus, I’ll add some esquites from the food truck on the way out of town.”

“With the chipotle mayo,” she relented; she still trusted him at an instinctive level. She couldn’t wish years of experience away in a moment and the word friend.

“_With_ the chipotle mayo,” he agreed, smirking at her and bumping her with his shoulder as he ambled to the door. He held it for her every time. Every time they walked through a door he was there to hold it open. One day she was just going to stomp on his foot, but only after it stopped being something that, though she hated it, felt thoughtful and charming.

They made most of the drive in silence, the radio crackling along with some strange mixture of country music and top fifty. She’d reached over once they made it to the city limits and dialed it to the classic rock station. It had been the only station they could agree on.

New Mexico was so wildly different from where she’d grown up. The flat lake lands of central Florida were a muggy sort of heat that crawled across the asphalt, cranky with mosquitos and boredom. She’d spent afternoons in the library to escape the heat, but fled into the farmland once winter rolled through with its perfect crisp days and long lazy nights full of stars, bottle rockets, and drunken gunfire. She’d followed Charlie through the near empty streets of Eustis, peering into the windows of the myriad antique stores, and watched her father take off the heavy work belt he wore at the Federal Prison. She’d followed Charlie on bikes through the back roads, avoiding lazy rattlers sleeping on the warm cement, ducking around the wild roaming packs of raccoons who lived in the big blue dumpster behind the Racetrac at the corner of nowhere and nothing. She’d followed Charlie through school and into the Army, one year behind and desperate to keep up. 

New Mexico was dry and dusty, but familiar in the razor sharp edges of the plant life, the hiss of lizard bodies in the dirt, and the thorns that grew everywhere. It was familiar in the heat, the aching press of the sun, and the nubby crunch of acorns under her boots. Sometimes, she missed the feeling of cold spring water sunk into the middle of the murky Florida rivers. She knew better than to swim in freshwater, but did it anyway. She knew better than to do a lot of things, but something about Florida made her fearless.

She watched out the window as the dry mesa sprawled out to the horizon. The hills were starting to perk up, ducking out of the dust with freckled scrub brush dotting along the edges of the highway. Max had plugged a set of coordinates into the in dash GPS, letting the soft female voice give him directions as Jenna read over the initial report. A driver with a flat tire had seen a boot in the gulley beside the road and a stream of vultures circling in the distance. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to send them out to take a look.

“Better safe than sorry,” Max had muttered as he palmed the wheel into an easy merge onto the highway after they’d stopped to pick up the esquites from the roadside truck. Jenna licked her fork and nodded, digging into the roasted corn, cheese, and mayo mixture quietly.

“Do you want to t-”

“Nope.”

“Okay.”

Sometimes, she appreciated her partner and his ability to simply let her be silent. Some men felt like she was supposed to be decorative, to entertain them, to take care of them. Max always let her just be what she wanted to be that day, even if it meant the silence felt a little strained under the rhapsodic chords of the Eagles on the radio. She’d spent most of her life being measured and judged. She’d spent her life being too pretty to be taken seriously or too tall to be beautiful or too skinny to be sexy or too something. Always, she was always too much of this and not enough of that. Max Evans just let her be his partner and for years it was enough.

They slowed as they approached the turn off for Elk Canyon Road right before the edge of the Mescalero Reservation, rumbling over the cattle grate and rocking lightly over a massive pot hole where the road had partially washed out in the winter rains. The Rio Penasco was dry behind them, just a loose, narrow trickle of water over the rocks. The rains had been slipping past this part of the county and hitting the more Eastern flatlands hard. The pasture was marked off with wire fencing and the area marred only by two mobile homes on the other side of the road, tucked close to one of the hills, and the telephone poles that stretched along the edges of the street. They drove away from these small signs of civilisation towards a tall column of buzzards that caught and circled in the updraft.

“Definitely something,” Max muttered and Jenna could only nod, leaning forward to peer up at the birds in flight.

They hit the end of the paved road, wheels spinning a little when they moved onto gravel and then again to packed dirt, the SUV heaving from side to side like a ship caught on harsh waters. The air was still, the trees unmoving as they eased to a stop, a blanket of vultures huddled around a shape in the dirt. Max threw the vehicle into park, engine idling as Jenna pushed out the door and approached the birds cautiously. They were ugly, naked-headed and sickly-looking with glossy black feathers, but she would never not be surprised by the sheer size of them as they hunched their scaly heads and ruffled their wings at where Max was starting to wave his hat to scare them off. Each bird was nearly two feet tall, angry and ugly with hooked beaks and the smell of rot. 

The flies were the last to leave, reluctant and boomeranging back to the body that lay face down in the dirt. Jenna blinked, sighing and grabbing her com tagged into the pocket of her uniform to call it in. Max reached out, stopping her. “Stop.”

“Max, that’s a body.”

“Look at it, Cam.” He glanced back at her, reaching with the toe of his boot to carefully tiptoe closer. The body belonged to a middle aged man with graying hair, balding and heavy set with a soft, red and blue flannel tucked tight into a pair of dirty wranglers over expensive, barely-worn boots. The man was used to a sedentary life, a pair of gold, wire-framed glasses tangled under the weight of his face. He was nondescript with gummy blue eyes, a small, lank-looking blond mustache, and acne.

“_Him_,” she reminded him. “That was _someone_, Max.”

“Cam,” he repeated, emphasis on her name like she was being especially dense. He turned, grabbing her eyes with a pointed look and then gestured at the body. She lifted her sunglasses, blinking in the watery light and swallowed. “Do you see?”

The man was face down in the dirt, not dead more than a night, but the edges of a glimmering handprint were catching light, fading and sparkling until it seemed to settle into something like a sunburn over his round cheeks. 

“I have to call this in.”

Max looked torn, mouth twisting up along with his eyebrows as he stared sorrowful at the dead man in the dirt. He waved his white cowboy hat, shooing the flies that had settled around the man’s unblinking eyes and at the curl of his fingers. He looked torn, eyes focused on the handprint that was starting to prick careful edges on the man’s face. Max Evans was torn and Jenna Cameron understood.

Something was very wrong in Chavez County and it only pointed in one direction. “This is...”

“I have to call it in, Max.”

He paused and she watched him take a long slow breath, nodding as he chewed his bottom lip. He went resolute and she recognized her partner for the first time that day in the long line of his spine and the way he held his shoulders like he carried the weight of the world. “Do it.”

**

“That doesn’t make _sense_.”

“It _does_ if you’re smart.”

“Shut up, asshole. I can see where you would make that leap, but the correlation is so infinitesimal-”

“It’s not that much of a leap. You have the electrical charge moving from this-”

“You can’t just hopscotch around the laws of physics, Mikey.”

“You can if you push,” came the drawled reply. 

Alex turned, hands full of chinese take out, and blinked at the disaster that was the Project Shepherd bunker. Michael and Liz were huddled together over a pile of papers on his desk, each monitor open to a different file, a sprawl of open folders and papers scattered over every surface. Someone had been writing on the glass dividers in marker, the edges glowing slightly and filled with a chemical equation that at first glance seemed unbalanced, but then seemed to turn adroitly into a physics proof. Alex was good with languages and patterns, but that level of complex algorithmic science was beyond him. Liz was frowning at where Michael was pointing, hair caught back in a sloppy bun and a black line drawn over her forehead where she must have scratched absently. Michael wasn’t looking much better, curls ragged from too many tugs, and he was holding the top edge of one of the monitors, shaking his head at Liz. They were securely locked in a world of science and math.

“If we batter the cell structure that way - the sheer enormity of an electrical charge?”

“It’s a solvable proof. You can test for results. If we can absorb electricity from outside of ourselves the way you’re theorizing-”

“It’s not a _theory_. Max _did_ it and it practically killed him when he over-extended the stored energy.”

“It’s a dead body. I’m pretty sure the electrical charge was released.”

“That’s a _theory_.” Liz frowned, turning back to the monitors and completely unaware of where Alex simply shook his head and started down the steps. “I can look through the data collected, but it doesn’t explain how the cell structure from Noah matches. I wish I could look at the coroner data.” 

“You can ask Max.”

“That seems illegal.”

“So does everything about this, but we do what we have to.” Michael paused, scribbling something on the paper he was staring at. “It would be so much easier if we could just-”

“I don’t know if I can trust him. The theory stands that it’s probably-”

“Then we test the fucking theory, Liz. We don’t just start accusing-”

Alex sighed, setting the chinese food down, and dropped his keys loudly on the table top. They both startled comically, immediately contrite and wide-eyed as they whirled and Alex had a moment of wondering if this is what parents felt like when they caught toddlers doing something that had kept them silent for too long.

“I’m sorry.” Liz stated quickly, words running together in a rush. “There was a dinging.”

“How much information do you have decoded from the data drives that I haven’t seen yet?” Michael said at the same time, eyebrows drawn together and mouth twisted slightly in a puzzled frown.

“Hello. I brought noodles.” Alex flicked his eyes up, tilting his head at the two of them. “I see you’ve been busy.”

“It was dinging.”

“There’s decades of data on alien biology here, Alex. Not to mention the racks of files on what looks like alien tech that Project Shepherd has been hoarding.”

Alex nodded, ducking his head to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You guys went digging into the files.”

“It was _dinging_,” Liz repeated as explanation.

Alex blinked and glanced down before looking at Liz again. “Wait, what was dinging?”

She pointed at the computer array, the monitors all lit with files they’d been digging through while he’d been on base. The bunker was a disaster, brilliant minds on display in the way it seemed to shift from one topic to the next, a general progression that made sense based on the project Liz was working on. He reached into the bag of food, snagging an individually-wrapped egg roll as he crossed to the platform his desk sat on. He scanned the monitors, noting the minimized programs running at the bottom and the slow blink of a completed file run. “Shit.”

He pushed forward, shouldering past them and dropping his snack on the papers as he dug for the mouse to pull open the blinking tab. The command line blinked, a simple encode text that stated one final outcome. 

The cell tower triangulation had completed. “I know where Flint is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and as always, much love to my tireless betas. This fic would not exist without you.
> 
> All spanish by the incredible Lire_Casander. (love and praise always)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albuquerque is three hours by car, a slow fade from the rolling plains to a higher mesa that tripped into sharp peaks on the horizon. The scrubby sagebrush lolled indolently into a section of shade trees that went greener near the small rivulet tributaries to the Rio Grande that strolled through the center of the city. The city itself felt tan, faded and dusty from the relentless sunshine that stripped the color from the walls, leaving everything blanched and faded, soft rose and pale bone ivory buildings curling out of the red dirt like the bones of a long dead animal. Alex didn’t like this drive. He didn’t like the way his mind would start to amp into a slow creeping anxiety with the tick of the lines on the highway. The way he would be left in silence, the soft breath of air conditioning brushing over his knuckles as he stared ahead.
> 
> His mother lived here. His mother lived three hours away by car and didn’t care to visit. When he was nine and standing in the driveway, she’d seemed a world away, gone past the point of the horizon and into the fading distance of memory. He was old enough to know that three hours wasn’t anywhere close to forever, but it was close enough to indifference to be painful.

Albuquerque is three hours by car, a slow fade from the rolling plains to a higher mesa that tripped into sharp peaks on the horizon. The scrubby sagebrush lolled indolently into a section of shade trees that went greener near the small rivulet tributaries to the Rio Grande that strolled through the center of the city. The city itself felt tan, faded and dusty from the relentless sunshine that stripped the color from the walls, leaving everything blanched and faded, soft rose and pale bone ivory buildings curling out of the red dirt like the bones of a long dead animal. Alex didn’t like this drive. He didn’t like the way his mind would start to amp into a slow creeping anxiety with the tick of the lines on the highway. The way he would be left in silence, the soft breath of air conditioning brushing over his knuckles as he stared ahead.

His mother lived here. His mother lived three hours away by car and didn’t care to visit. When he was nine and standing in the driveway, she’d seemed a world away, gone past the point of the horizon and into the fading distance of memory. He was old enough to know that three hours wasn’t anywhere close to forever, but it was close enough to indifference to be painful. Three hours didn’t seem like far enough to be silent. 

“I've been watching you plan a conversation for an hour,” Michael tried, somewhere outside of Vaughn, turned in his seat and reaching to touch light fingers along the line of Alex’s thigh. Alex tried not to flinch from the words or the touch. "You don’t talk about her."

“I don’t.”

“Should you?” Michael had kept his voice quiet. “Talk?”

“I’m driving, Guerin.”

The car drifted slightly, rumbling across the sleep strips cut into the asphalt on the edge of the highway and he tried to casually pull the car back to straight. He swallowed, eyes trained on the road in front of him. He didn’t like the silence. He didn’t like how swollen it felt, how necessary and present, but it was better than the way it would feel like spitting teeth to talk.

“I want to know about _you_,” Michael started after a long minute passed, the soft beat of the radio barely audible.

New Mexico wasn’t welcoming. It was a prickly landscape scarred with long stretches of arid desert and capped with one of the most unforgiving areas in the world. He was watching the way the sun beat down on the highway, once black, but now the same pearlescent dusty gray as the gravel littering the side of the road. There was a few spiky yucca spearing beautiful delicate clusters of white flowers at the sky, the ridiculous, endless, blue winter sky in the desert, and Michael Guerin was touching his thigh and asking him a question. Alex wanted to answer it. He wanted to find the words for the feel of his mother’s fingers peeling his hands from her thigh in the kitchen. He wanted to find the words for the way she would look at him blankly in the morning when he was trying to eat his cereal so quietly. He wanted to find the words.

But silence didn’t have words. Indifference left bruises that faded to a bone ache that felt like numbness. It left depressions inside of him, on his lungs. She’d left little empty spots under his ribs that he wished he knew how to explain. 

“She was just gone. She was always just _gone._” He heard his voice and it sounded flat around the long vowel that rolled over the roof of his mouth. “She packed her car up one morning while Dad was at work and before the bus came to pick us up for school. I remember watching her put a milk crate full of records in the passenger seat and thinking that there was no room for me.” He opened his mouth, cracking his jaw where it ached, gone tight with gritting against the way the words fell flat like round stones from his lips. “She didn’t want me.”

“How old were you?” He appreciated that Michael didn’t try to convince him that he was wrong. He was so wildly grateful that he didn’t try to explain his mother to him.

“Nine.” He swallowed and gripped the steering wheel tighter, rolling the slightly loose feeling of the cover over the firm plastic underneath. “I was nine.”

The road didn’t vary, just stretched ahead of him in a straight line peppered with a few SUVs and semi trucks. Each exit was clearly marked and the mile numbers ticked past in time. He was thinking about the moment he’d just wanted to plop down on the path that led up to the front door of the house. He thought about the way Hunter and Harlan had simply turned and gone inside. He’d watched Flint, wanting to grab his hand, but knowing that his brother would simply shrug him off, shrug out of the touch, and sneer at him.

“Stop being a fucking baby,” Flint had said, eyes red-rimmed and glossy in the early sunlight crawling around the cul-du-sac. 

Alex had wanted to throw a handful of grass at him, but settled instead for following his brothers inside, back into the dark.

“We just went back inside. We didn’t know what to do, but it didn’t surprise us either. It didn’t surprise Dad. I don’t even remember if I cried. It was just like there was a switch that flipped and we all just... I don’t know. We all just stopped. It became about the legacy. We weren’t kids anymore, you know? We were just soldiers. Like it was easier to be a squad than a family.” He paused, frowning at the pieces he was skimming around, tracing the empty spots like if he could fill around it with words he would be able to make sense of it. “Dad didn’t hit me. Not at first. So, it wasn’t that he thought mom left because of me. It was just _me_.” He heard himself say it; heard himself say it out loud. “I can’t ever decide if that’s comforting or not. I thought maybe if-” He sniffed and flicked his eyebrows up as his voice cracked to a halt. 

“When I made it back to Roswell,” Michael said into the silence Alex left between them. “I would sneak out of the group home and hitch rides to Foster Ranch. I can’t imagine what people must have thought. I was just some ratty-ass looking kid with a shitty haircut trying to hitch.” He smiled, quick and so bright that Alex could see it from the corner of his eye. He couldn’t look over, not yet.

“I wanted someone to look for me.” Michael traced a soft line over Alex’s knee, eyes focused on the grain of the denim. “I wanted to believe that they were looking for me.”

“It’s nice to have hope that _someone_ wants you.”

“We don’t have to do thi-”

“Yes. We do.” Alex tilted his head, thankful for the subject change. He wanted to pull the car over. He wanted to pull the car over and pull Michael to him, to feel someone _need _him. He could practically taste the way it would go frantic and keening, a hurried rush to get as close as possible as fast as possible. It was easier than words. “My Dad is dead. My mother has been gone for so long. My family is actively trying to destroy yours.” He sucked his teeth, frowning darkly at the windshield and the road that just kept going. “_Guerin_.”

“You tryin’ to make us some sort of tragic Shakespearean play?” Michael spread his fingers out, pressing his palm against the stretch of denim over his thigh and Alex could feel the heat of him through the cloth. “Because that doesn’t end well from what I remember. Can’t get any worse, man.”

“I’m terrified.”

The engine was an easy purr, the power contained to a low rumble of tires on asphalt. Alex could feel the tremble that wanted to shake out of his bones and gripped the steering wheel harder. He held on and felt the way his calves bunched, the way his right knee twinged painfully. The SUV sped up as his left foot pushed the modified accelerator. He wanted to flee. He wanted to turn off the road and push out the door, out of this small space, and out of this conversation. He wouldn’t. He didn’t run anymore. He wanted to pretend for a brief moment that Michael was just meeting his family. That he was taking him home to a mom who would pause and look at Michael Guerin like she was sizing him up, taking his measure to make sure he was good enough for her son. He wanted to have a life where all he had to worry about was the way Michael would keep him up too late and wake him up too early.

He didn’t want to have to be brave.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Michael tapped his thumb against Alex’s knee and shifted in the seat next to him, the leather creaking. “Turns out, I was waiting for you.”

“Jesus, you can’t just say that shit, Guerin.” Alex rolled his eyes, startling at the declaration and throwing him a wet-eyed wild look.

Michael just smirked, slow and easy. “Watch me.”

“I’m _driving_, Guerin.”

“You keep saying that,” Michael replied and Alex could hear the way he touched his tongue to his teeth, could hear the way he moved closer in the space between seats. “Maybe you shouldn’t be.” He paused, and Alex shuddered through a full body throb of want when his nose touched the shell of his ear. “Maybe you should stop.”

“_Fuck_.”

“Exactly.”

**

"Mom?_ What_-"

Isobel and Maria had turned the corner, squinting into the sudden splash of winter-white sunlight that cracked over the tops of the buildings. It was starting to move into late morning, the shadows going short around the edges of the large pots that decorated the edges of the sidewalk. Isobel focused where Maria was moving away from her, hurrying towards where Mimi DeLuca was standing outside, hair rustling around her face as she pulled the edges of the long pale khaki coat around her against the steady wind that cut down the street. They’d been laughing a moment ago, caught between the brick sides of the alley and moving towards Maria’s apartment. 

Maria was flushed from the cold, a blush over her cheeks and nose, the tips of her ears caught under the beanie that caught her curls tight to her head and escaped in lazy, lolling loops around her jaw and the back of her neck. She was lovely, crackling bright like light off water. The worry dropped cold between them, prickling Isobel’s defenses as she glanced behind her like she would be able to pinpoint the exact spot the mood had changed. 

“Mom, what are you doing outside?”

"I'm wearing shoes," Mimi answered, absent as she frowned down at the flower beds in front of the brick federalist row building that she lived in. "Stop fretting. That's supposed to be my job. I might have forgotten for-" Isobel blinked when Mimi DeLuca glanced up and froze, frowning deeply at where she was standing next to Maria. "What's she doing here?"

"Nice to see you too," Isobel muttered, clearing her throat around the last word when Maria tossed her a tart look, expecting something more politic.

"Mom, she's my friend. She helped you, remember?" Maria was looking around like she was trying to figure out if there was anything she needed to clean up, anything that needed to be tidied away. She bent, picking up a pair of soft leather gloves from where they’d been discarded on the steps up to the entryway to the building. 

It was one of the older buildings in Roswell, brick-fronted with the white cornice work that curved over the bay windows near the street and stretched stauntly up to rub elbows with the rest of the row. It was leftover from the turn of the century boom that had built Roswell’s downtown. It was a faded memory from the time when Roswell was a simple town that supported the local dairy farms and the people who worked the cattle. Roswell’s center was still old, still something that remembered that it had been wild once. This town may have gone quiet, but in the dark, it remembered.

"You'll have to forgive me, my memory is..._spotty._" Mimi snorted, twisting her mouth and putting both hands on her hips as she stared up at Isobel. "Apparently, I've missed quite a bit. For example, the last I truly remember you were an awful girl and now you're... _this_." 

Isobel held Mimi's gaze, level and open as she forced herself to take a breath. The woman was slight with beautifully wild hair that curled around her face. She was wearing an overly large sweater under the long coat and tidy slim-cut jeans that framed her petite frame, slender wrists, and delicate collarbones. The gaze wasn't small. It was full of something close to anger and a half step from resentment. 

"I've _grown_." Isobel stated flatly around an arched eyebrow as she pursed her lips. She fought the urge to take a step back. She fought against the way the air seemed to make her skin crawl here. “I didn’t come here to fight.” 

“Wouldn’t want that, now would we?” Mimi sniffed and turned adroitly, hunkering down to start pulling some weedy, dessicated plants from the garden. "You didn't take care of my flowers, Maria." Mimi sighed sadly, shaking her head down at the overgrown bed.

"I was a little busy, Mom." Maria was visibly tense now, the sharp edges of it taut across her shoulders. "But, Isobel is helping me file the paperwork to reopen the Pony. That's good, right?"

"She's doing so much for us lately," Mimi replied. 

"You could be grateful," Isobel snapped. She didn't like it here. She didn't like the way it felt sharp-edged and cutting. She didn't like the way it felt like she was unwanted, pushed away. She wanted to reach into the garden and rip up the weeds that were tangling in the dry desert dirt.

"Is _that_ what I should be?" Mimi set a hand down and turned her head, blinking up at Isobel. Isobel startled at the way the woman seemed to go electric as she stared, piercing. “I must have forgotten.” Isobel tried to look away as Mimi’s jaw set and her voice echoed in her head, the thoughts so loud they felt like a shove. _Grateful? I lost nearly ten years with my daughter. Jimmy is dead. Jesse is dead. Everything connected to this and you and all of these secrets is dead._ She narrowed her eyes. "Maria, why don’t you ask your _friend_ inside for coffee?” Isobel was trapped in the stare, in the echoing words that forced her back a step. _And now? Now you want my **daughter**?_

“I wouldn’t want to impose.” Isobel felt the words grit past her teeth, the strain sparking little bursts of pain behind her eyes.

“Oh, no, we wouldn’t want that.”

"Mom. _Stop it_. Isobel didn't do anything but help us. She saved your life and brought you back." Maria moved in one quick step between Isobel and Mimi, and Isobel wanted to reach forward and touch the edge of her hand, to find something that felt weighted and centered. 

They'd met back up in front of City Hall. Town Square ended abruptly at the building, the white adobe front at odds with the brick buildings nearby. Roswell wasn’t entirely sure where it came from, wobbling from southwest to federalist like a drunk swaggering home from the bar. The gazebo had been behind her, decorated for the winter holidays, the ribbons fluttering in the breeze and the long strings of lights blinking through a delightful, sparkling display that was muted by the watery sunlight. 

She’d parked at the meter and bought two coffees at Bean Me Up before waiting at the bottom of the stairs for Maria DeLuca. Isobel wore a long, grey, wool coat with a fur-lined collar and matching ear muffs. She had her hair caught back in a simple braid that she tucked into the collar of her shirt. She'd tried for simple with the lean, dark denim and high riding boots with a fashionably floral print with a delicate collar. Maria was in a simple cream dress with cable knit tights, loose, brown leather boots, a draped cardigan under the matching brown leather jacket, and hand-knit scarf. The paperwork had given them purpose, but Isobel couldn't quite explain what was happening. 

Maria had looked determined and taut, mouth a firm line as they moved shoulder to shoulder through the building. The Clerk of Courts office was a small alcove off the main lobby, the marble-tiled floors crisply polished and lined with different announcement boards and brass-plated signs signifying different departments. Each floor represented a different branch of the local government with the Judiciary off to the left. She could count the steps to her father’s auxiliary office, the shared room two floors up with the large wooden table, brass-plated outlets, and boring white walls. The window was painted shut and she’d gotten tired of the same static view over the years.

“Don’t get too close to David,” Isobel had whispered, leaning down to keep the warning between them. Maria had blinked, holding the file of paperwork in both hands in front of her, clutched tight to her chest. Isobel had smirked, quirking an eyebrow, and spun the world into the beautiful cotton candy presence of the mindscape. The records office had looked pretty and pearlescent for once, the lights overhead spreading a cross-hatched interlacing lines of soft dove gray with the pretty pink and soft blues. 

“Isobel.”

“What?” Isobel had batted her eyelashes, smile going smartly genuine as she strode across the room and leaned against the counter to point at where David Gronek was paused behind the computer. He’d been helplessly unhygienic with greasy hair and a flake of skin in his eyebrow. His mouth had been open, loud breathing paused where he was waiting for Maria to hand over the pile of papers for him to sort and stamp, starting the filing process. Isobel always brought him wrapped mints, smiling sweetly to cut the conversation short. His breath was fetid, warm and overpowering. “Trust me. You don’t want this to last any longer than necessary. I’m sparing you.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” Maria had quirked an eyebrow. “You could have just told me this in person.”

“This is in person. This is so in person. I’m personable.” Isobel had beamed around the room, watching the small crowd that was paused mid movement. She’d turned, leaning both elbows against the ledge. “People are totally my thing.”

“That’s why you’ve paused everyone? Because you love people so much?” Maria had flipped open the folder. “I care enough about you to save you from David’s breath.” Isobel had rolled her head on her neck, smile gone winsome and open. “That’s definitely somewhere around sainthood.”

“Turn them back on, Iz. I need to get this filed.” 

Isobel had pouted slightly, rolling her eyes and pushing up from the counter. “Fine. You asked for it.” She’d paused, reaching to tilt David’s head slightly to the side and moved back to where she’d been leaning. The world had kicked into motion again - a siren scream of an unhappy toddler kicking up in a wild warbling wail that rattled around the space. She moved, sitting and crossing her long legs as she stared at her phone from the bank of uncomfortable plastic chairs that created a small seating area behind the lines taped into the marble floor. She’d watched David cough, Maria flinch, and covered the smirk with one finger as she waited.

Now, Isobel just wanted her to smile again. She wanted to reach over and smooth the small worried crease from between Maria's brows. She wanted to have her full focus; she wanted her joy. She watched her, glancing across the room to see if she was looking, caught for a moment before looking away. She _wanted_. 

They were supposed to have gone their separate ways. Isobel was going to get into her Audi and drive north. Maria was going to walk home the few scant blocks to her apartment. Maria was going to take a left and turn down the side street and out of sight. Isobel was supposed to be driving north to finish the process she'd started. It was supposed to take a little less than a day. Maria was going to walk away and Isobel was going to drive to Albuquerque to sit in front of a bored Second Judicial Court Judge and wipe the last bit of Noah from her life. Isobel was going to be an Evans again. She wanted nothing between herself and the life she was going to build. She didn't want anyone to be able to take credit. She didn't want anyone to be able to claim what was hers. And yet, she’d found herself turning down the street, matching step with Maria as they walked towards her apartment. 

"I should go," she sighed, frowning at the way the words felt sad and hurting.

"Yes."

"No."

Maria and Mimi looked at each other, facing off silently in front of their home. 

"She has somewhere to be, Maria." Mimi raised both eyebrows and cocked her head. "Don't you?"

"Yeah. That would be nice." Isobel coughed a dry brittle laugh, lip curling as she ducked her head and stared at the ground. Everything about this place felt wrong except Maria. It felt like sandpaper against her skin, against her mind. It felt unwelcoming, overly full and watching her. It felt wrong. She could feel the headache that was starting to blossom across the front of her mind, stretching clawing fingers of pain and nausea over her. She swallowed against the way her mouth watered helpfully, coating her tongue as she gagged slightly. 

Isobel fought the urge to reach out and tangle her fingers in the sleeve of Maria's coat. She fought the urge to grab her and run. She fought the urge to reach out and just take a little something that was hers. "I'm going to go."

"Iz."

"It's fine. I'm not myself before coffee either. Maybe a little lunch." She gave a bright quick smile, smoothing the edges of the anger out of her voice. "I've got some business out of town."

Maria turned and there was a moment of utter quiet as Isobel held her gaze, the world going soft after what seemed like hours of wrong and off-kilter. "Okay. Be careful."

Isobel smirked. "I can take care of myself."

**

Liz dropped her bag on the end of the long table in the center of the bunker. The lights flickered on, grumpily buzzing to full steam as she hooked the band off her wrist and started pulling her hair back. The samples were clustered into four sections under the special lamps on the second alcove, the agitator still rolling through the soft grind to separate a fifth sample down to base parts. She had left them the night before, eyes blurring in sleep as she’d forced herself to stand and walk out of the bunker, out of the soft cool air and a little warm spot she’d made on the chair and out into the frigid night. Michael and Alex had left hours ago, talking quietly to each other. She’d needed to go to bed and sleeping on the table top wasn’t the way she wanted to spend her evening. She’d wanted the vibrant warmth of Max tucked against her back, her cold toes curled to hook behind his calf.

The bunker was always quiet and she pulled out her phone, finding the SONOS she’d set up the day before as she shuffled up the steps to the lab space. She glanced over, frowning for a moment as she picked the random Spotify playlist of instrumentals with a bpm of 145. The synthy clap started up, echoing for a moment off the cement and rebar before settling warmly through the space and just slightly off tempo from the groan of the circulator fans. 

The line of test tubes sat neatly in the tray, waiting to be tested. She flipped the light on her microscope, pausing to stare at the table top, trying to figure out what was wrong. The table itself was a four by six fold out with angry metal legs that she and Kyle had wrestled into position before locking into place. The test tubes were to the right-hand side, labeled with Michael’s neat handwriting. A clunky outdated laptop sat open, used primarily for statistical data processing, holding down a few loose papers as a blinking cursor waited for input. She’d start by recording date and time with the ambient temperature. She’d start by making a note of all the simple data that should match across the board, the baseline for the experiments. 

Something was off, though. She tipped her head, frowning at the table as she huffed a deep breath and set her hands on her hips, glaring at it. The test tubes were correct, the light from the microscope tossing a casual glow around, and the petri dishes that had been left stacked neatly to the left of the UV light were a scattered pile. The heat lamp was clamped onto the far edge, warming a small stack of wax plates to keep the sharp stick samples in the delicate cluster of glass piping. She glared at the table top, playing a shorthand version of memory, matching where she’d left everything the night before to where it was today, rolling her eyes at a petri dish that was not stacked and left dangerously close to the warm circle of the heat lamp.

“Damn it, Kyle,” she huffed, shaking her head. She checked that she was hooked into the wifi, not wanting to have to haul all the way out of the bunker again just to send a text. She huffed at the bars and started typing.

[sms] You can’t forget to put the petri dishes into the stack. If they are misordered then it can affect the entire experiment results.

{sms} i didn’t forget. stacked them like you like.

{sms} i know better than to risk your science rage.

{sms} you may not remember freshman year geology, but i do.

{sms} never seen anyone get so angry about the mohs hardness scale before

[text] in my defense, it was 1/4 of our grade

[text] and you did forget. please make sure you double check before you leave.

{sms} I took a picture! 

{sms} Blame Guerin.

Kyle sent a picture of the table top. He’d obviously climbed up on a chair to get the full aerial view of the lab space and he was correct. The table was neatly staged: the test tubes were in the correct space, the microscope off, the stick sample glass piping in the warm ring of light from the grow lamp, and the petri dishes stacked in a tidy pile.

Liz sighed, looking back at the table in front of her. The table was still neat, the tubes in place, the stick piping correct, but the petri dishes had moved. Furrowing her brows, she collected them back into a neat stack and put them back in proper order.

She turned, moving to the desk to snag her pen, notebook, and her breakfast granola bar. The music was thrumming through the space, a low tinny beat that she bobbed to as she moved. Liz Ortecho worked best in motion, nodding in time. She skipped down the steps to her bag again, tucking her phone back into her back pocket, and would have missed the noise, but there was a drop beat.

It was a glass clatter, a soft tapping like a peck of a bird at a window and she froze. Behind her, there was a soft shiver of noise that drowned in the flood of music when the song kicked up again. 

Liz was a woman of science; she understood that everything could be explained. She understood that there was a small spike of adrenaline that was the source of her heart rate, that the flood of blood to the skin in a fight or flight response was the chill that prickled along her spine. She knew all of these things, but, frozen for a moment in fear, she just tried to understand why something was moving behind her. She was alone here. She was alone in the bunker with nothing but the scientific samples for data collection. She was alone with nothing but cell samples and her thoughts.

The noise came again in the pause between songs, a soft clatter that couldn’t be mistaken for anything except something battering against glass. Something was moving behind her. Something was tapping. 

Liz forced herself to move, a slow crawl as she reached into her back pocket, back stiff and muscles clenched. It was torturous, the way the music broke bright and happy against the deep pit of fear that slammed around her lungs. She thumbed the music off, the silence just as startling. She could hear the slight tilt of the fans in the walls, the hum of the lights over head. Everything was quiet. Nothing was moving. Nothing was moving. Nothing was moving.

Behind her there was a crash and she startled with a gasping noise, spinning to see a creeping splash of water and the glitter of broken glass. On the table top, one of the petri dishes shook, clattering in a startled jump, pausing before slapping into motion again. She stared as it stilled, sure for one bright, terrified second that she was imagining it, that she was seeing things before it stuttered into motion again, lifting and rattling back to place like a coin settling after being spun.

She screamed, a short startled noise that strangled as she slapped both hands over her mouth. The table top was still. Nothing was moving.

“Get a grip, Liz,” she whispered, swallowing and forcing herself to move. She needed proof. She needed proof that she wasn’t seeing things. She rocked into motion, throwing herself up the stairs and tip toeing to the edge of the table. The test tubes sat silent on the right, the glass piping prickling out of the warm wax tray. There was a fallen stack of petri dishes, each neatly labeled as they sprawled across the table. She exhaled, realizing she’d just stacked them off balance. She was alone and afraid, obviously imagining things. 

She nodded a few times, shaking her head at her own foolishness and reached to start gathering the dishes back into a more secure stack. She reached and the petri dish shocked up, a formless gray mass slamming and undulating against the lid, desperate to reach her as she startled back.

Liz nearly tripped down the steps, nearly fell in her fumbling primal terror to get _away_. The mass swirled against the side of the dish, eeling back and forth liquidly before settling to still, a soft, dove gray thing that rippled once and seemed to shove backwards away from her and towards the heat lamp again. She clung to the railing behind her and stared as the thing slumped and heaved, forcing the dish toward the heat in stuttered abortive slides. She could feel the icy fear that was shaking in her skin, could feel it - the way she’d freeze at the sight of a snake, the lingering crawl of panic at a spider trapped under a glass that flung itself towards her. She could feel it, the animal want to flee as she stared. 

“Move,” she heard herself say. “_Move_, Liz.” She only moved when she remembered the broken dish on the ground, yelping and scampering down the steps in a mindless flight before standing on the table in the center of the bunker, panting in her panic as she shook. The room was quiet under the soft tempo of the instrumentals, the thing in the dish content in the circle of warm light again. She trembled, full body shudders as she stood on top of papers and blueprints, her bag yawning open as she forced herself to move, to drop down to hands and knees so she could stare under the table. 

A child with a monster under the bed. It was an old fear. A fear of the dark, the unknown, the hiss of scales on a cave floor, the crackle of a broken twig in the forest behind her. She was fighting the thought that if she moved too low it would reach her, that it would ripple and writhe across the floor, across the space and roar up to tangle into her. She blinked, fighting through the fear, fighting the irrationality of it all, the impossibility of it all. She watched the water on the floor, the glitter of broken glass and exhaled.

She snagged her phone, thumbing back to the most recent conversation. 

“Kyle? I need you. Right now.”

**

"You better be here," Maria muttered, soles of her boots scrambling on the brick as she dangled from the end of the ladder up to the fire escape. She didn't do this as often anymore. She'd searched out a couple of empty milk crates to stack on the blue painted pallet she'd pulled across the alley away from the dumpster to flop with a clatter on the mildly grease-stained cement. It smelled. It always smelled a little like rotting cardboard, curdled milk, and the specific stench of old fryer grease. The alley behind the Crashdown Cafe was familiar, but strange in the daylight. She heaved, feeling the strain across her shoulders and pulled herself up to the second rung, folding her arms over the metal and panting for a few moments before starting to haul herself up and onto the lowest platform grate.

Rosa's window was three platforms up from the street with old, empty flower pots, a rusting can of spray paint, and a lighter taped under the handrail. Maria blew out a breath, starting up the stairs. It was early afternoon and she was tired of paperwork and signatures, expensive coffee and fancy granola. She was tired of the cold war of charm that was her mother and Isobel Evans. She was tired. She wanted to smoke a joint and sit on the sun-warmed gravel roof with her best friend. She wanted something that sat nostalgia-adjacent. She wanted Rosa.

The window struggled open, her palms flat on the glass. It moved in short, cranky gulps that rocked from side to side in the frame, sticking and grumbling crankily. It stopped short. The glass was thin, the wood thickly coated with paint, and the window sash stuck. She’d managed to wedge a folded piece of paper further into the frame, crumpling and keeping the window from opening. 

“Great.” She leaned back, wriggling the folded paper from side to side, the edges soggy and tearing slightly before it was released in a sudden rattling thump of wood window frame and glass. She stuffed the paper into her pocket and rolled her eyes at the way the window slid smoothly open. “Rosa-”

Maria dumped herself inside, a tangle of limbs and groans before rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling. There were a thousand small green stars superglued to the plaster in three distinct sections: perfectly calibrated constellations from a certain night in their youth, a spiraling galaxy that trailed over near the door and above the closet, and the random clusters that clumped into the empty spaces. Maria picked out the Pleiades - her favorite - and rolled onto her side, kicking the bedframe with the tip of her boot. "Get up! Get up you lug. It's apparently one and normal people are awake at this time. If I have to be awake and normal, then so do you."

She was answered with a groan, a flip of hair, and an uncannily well-aimed pillow that caught her just under the chin. Rosa Ortecho was cocooned in covers and beautiful in slept-in makeup that left smudged black marks on her pillowcase. Rosa blinked a few times at Maria before recognition settled and she groaned again flopping around until she was on her side facing the window. She started a hello that cracked in half with a wide, body-shaking yawn.

Maria loved Rosa Ortecho in a very simple way. “Morning, sunshine.” She shuffled around on the floor until she could fold her arms on the edge of the bed, set her chin on the back of her wrists, and blink at her friend close up and smudged with sleep. “I have a problem.”

“_You_ have a problem.” Rosa flattened her mouth and reached to curl her fingers over Maria’s wrist, tugging in invitation and wriggling to the farther side of the bed, making room. “Is it a boy?”

“No.”

“Then it’s not that big of a problem.” Rosa nodded, hair catching under her cheek until she lifted slightly, reaching to tug the black mess of it behind her with an annoyed noise. “I died, you know.” She continued, airy with a slight, eyes-closed smirk. “_That’s_ a problem.”

“You love that you’ll always win the my-problems-are-worse game. Don’t lie.” Maria hopped into bed, kicking her feet back to dangle the soft-sided leather boots off the edge and settle comfortably onto the pillow. 

“I do. I have to hold on to the simple joys.” Rosa huffed, tucking her hands under the pillow under her jaw, and opened her eyes, watching Maria. Maria let herself sink into the impossible heart-swelling joy that was her best friend back in her life, back from the grave, glowing and sleep-rumpled in the afternoon sunshine. It was like an answered prayer. Rosa was effervescent, a sparkling electric that tickled at the edges of Maria’s mood, fizzing and delicious. She was rose-colored and crackly like sweet pop rocks. She was-

“Oh my god,” Maria gasped, eyes going wide. “You _bitch_. Who is it? You’re all sparkly!”

“Stop that. God. You’re not supposed to do that.” Rosa frowned before shifting closer in a little scoot of hip. The pause lingered in the short space between them and the flood of sweet was so warm Maria had to close her eyes. She savored it, sticky and rich like syrup. Rosa was alive and lit up with wanting. “So, I kissed someone.”

“You’ve been back for like _two seconds_,” Maria managed, smile wide and helpless around how happy Rosa felt. “How the hell did you? Who?” She reached, grabbing Rosa’s shoulder to shake it lightly, grinning and feeling the soft lick of gold hope under her skin. “Tell me _everything_.”

“His name is November.”

“That’s not a name, that’s a month.” Maria frowned.

“That’s what I said and then he kissed me.” Rosa widened her eyes around the impossible statement. “He... Maria.”

Maria waited, feeling the rainbow shimmer of Rosa’s emotions skitter over her skin like a quick sunshower, casting colors and beauty that sizzled and tapped before sinking deep. Rosa had always been loud, but this was a claxon, a warning siren, a bell tolling in the distance to ripple across the hills and out into the sprawl of flat farmland beyond. This was something that flushed through her, startling and breathless. Maria didn’t let herself think about how it felt familiar. She didn’t want to deal with the way she was starting to need the quiet settled warmth that was-

“He’s tall. He’s funny. He’s beautiful and sharp-feeling like a pretty knife.” “You’re the only person I know that thinks knives are beautiful.” “Not true, but I’ll let you have it.” Rosa sniffed. “I was coming to see you the other night and he was just there.”

“Like he’s stalking you?”

“No, like he was looking for me. Like he was seeking me out? Like,” she frowned. “It wasn’t creepy. It didn’t feel creepy.”

“Would it have been creepy if he wasn’t hot?”

“No?” Rosa frowned, thinking. “He felt new.” She wrinkled her nose and Maria couldn’t help but reach out and touch the tip, delighted by the way her friend seemed so happy, so alight. “When he touched me it was different. I don’t know how to explain it. I’m not some wilting daisy-”

“No one would ever accuse you of being mild and demure, Rosa.”

“Frederico and I were together for awhile and it never -_ it never _\- felt like it did when he touched my hand.” Rosa caught Maria’s wrist, curling her fingers into her palm and sketching a quick arc over her knuckles with her thumb. “It was like the world just stopped. It felt like something inside of me just... it just-”

“_Woke up_.” Maria swallowed around the way the words slipped out of her. 

The room was close and warm, Rosa’s profile smiling at the ceiling and Maria was thinking about the way Isobel Evans had looked in firelight, panting and gone pale where she’d been slumped against a pile of tires. Sander’s Salvage had been eerily quiet as she’d listened to Isobel breathe. She couldn’t have left, not with Isobel’s fingers tight around her own. She couldn’t have looked away, not now that Isobel was looking at her. She could count the thousand plastic stars glued to the ceiling. She could, but she was thinking about the way everyone had been moving, bustling around them. All Maria had been able to see was the proud, defiant surety in Isobel’s gaze. She was thinking about the way Isobel looked at her first whenever someone laughed in the group. The sun slanted in the window, kicking galaxies into the swirling dustmotes that glittered in the silence. She was thinking about the way Isobel would lounge in any seat, a long line of golden skin with shimmering blond hair. She thought about the way her small rosebud mouth would quirk, eyebrow tilting Maria a silent question whenever their gazes met.

Rosa was sighing at the ceiling, half in love and Maria was thinking about the way Isobel had looked, paused in a perfect moment of power - golden hair glowing and haloed around her as she screamed. Isobel had been a goddess given life, reckless and unstoppable as the world warped and shattered under her touch. Maria could taste the way the air had felt when Isobel had dragged her mother back into the world. She remembered the way they’d panted together, little scared mewls of noise as Isobel panicked and reached for her in the dark. They’d been through so much now. They’d been a team.

Maria was dreaming about the way it would feel when Isobel finally kissed her, living for the way she shivered golden in those dreams. The touch of light fingers to the inside of her thighs and how Isobel could slip close and take. She was thinking about the way she woke up breathless and electric, skin alive with want of a touch. She was thinking about Isobel Evans.

“Yes._ That._” Rosa nodded a few times and closed her eyes. “He makes me feel awake. I don’t want it to go to sleep again. I want... I want him to look at me all the time. I don’t want him to look away. It’s like when he’s looking at me, I can feel him seeing me. It was this... this rush. Like lightning.”

“Sounds like you had a moment.”

“Oh God. It’s so cheesy, right?”

“Not at all.” Maria thought about the way it felt like a physical touch when Isobel looked at her. “I know those moments.” 

They were caught close in the pause that followed, Maria curled onto her side and staring at her best friend in her oversized black t-shirt and plaid flannel pajama pants. Rosa was glowing. “I really like him. It’s... like-”

“Do you have a picture of this guy?” Maria lifted both eyebrows, reaching to touch the beauty mark at the corner of Rosa’s eye. “I’d put money on him matching your usual criteria: tall, dark, and handsome. For a rebel, you are wildly predictable.”

“Says the girl who can’t say no to blonds. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about TJ.” “Oh my god. _I’d_ forgotten about TJ. _Please_. Let us never speak of this again.”

“What? The frosted tips stopped being your thing?”

“Mention it again and I will personally murder you and bury you where no one can find you this time.”

“Dark. I like it.” Rosa grinned. “I did draw a picture.”

“Oh?” Maria shifted, the mattress bouncing under her as she shoved up on straight arms and flipped, curling to lean back against the headboard and hold a hand out expectantly. “Gimme.”

“It’s really bad. I’m apparently out of practice.” Rosa blew out a breath. “No laughing.” 

“No laughing.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Rosa nodded once, shoving her hair out of her face, and rolled, twisting to lay across the bed, one toe hooked at the opposite edge of the mattress to hold her in place while she rummaged around under the bed. Maria reached into her pocket to snag her phone, pulling it and the wadded-up, folded piece of paper out. “Oh hey,” she started, noting a text from one of her liquor reps. “This was in your window.” She held the paper out, replying as she felt the bed shift and Rosa settle back upright.

“Where’d you get that?” Rosa sounded confused, voice going quiet. Maria hit send and looked up, stilling at the way Rosa seemed to have gone pale, eyes focused on the folded paper Maria was holding.

“It was in the window?” Maria cocked her head, glancing at the paper. Rosa set the sketch book she’d fished from under the bed aside, snagging the paper like she was ripping off a bandaid. The paper didn’t rustle when she opened it, the creases worn and a little torn from the beating the window casing had inflicted on it. “Rosa?”

“I thought you said he was dead.” Rosa was staring at the paper as it shook slightly in her grip.

“What?” Maria shifted, ducking forward to see what had spooked Rosa. “Who’s dead?”

“The guy. The guy who killed me. You said he was dead.”

“Noah? Yeah. He’s dead. He’s really super dead.” Maria scanned the page. “What’s wrong?”

It was a soft cream colored paper like fancy stationery with a ripped edge. It was smudged, battered, and dented from the creases. The message was a simple, one-line missive in clear typed letters:

_I promised you’d never be alone. -Ophiuchus_

Rosa swallowed, eyes wet and red-rimmed with fear. “Then how did he write this?”

**

“You guys do realize I’m a surgeon and not a medical examiner, right?” Kyle tucked his phone away after finishing a text with a small huff of noise. He glanced behind him and started washing his hands, scrubbing at his nail beds as he caught Max’s gaze with a flat frown. “This isn’t really what I trained-”

“I didn’t really have a choice,” Max muttered, hands on his hips as he thinned his mouth in reply. He’d left his hat on, the wide, white brim casting a heavy shadow over his face as he looked at the body on the metal table set on the left hand side of the morgue. “There’s a handprint and I don’t think we can trust Jane Holden.”

The room was a long rectangle with a bank of cold storage shelves on the far wall, a small viewing area, three rolling tables, and massive basin sinks. The lights pulled down from the ceiling were mounted next to the hanging scales that dangled next to each exam table, the metal canted inward to a drain with small gutters on each side. The tiles were clean, a pale near white color with freshly bleached grout. The entire room could be safely pressure washed, the stainless steel free of fingerprints and each station meticulously cleaned. The body was draped with a white cloth, the smell catching in the vent hood that choked once and scrambled into action when Kyle had flipped the switch with the lights when they entered. 

“She’s such a _pleasant_ woman,” Kyle muttered, tapping his foot to the faucet pedal and letting his hands drip before drying them on the blue towel and tossing it into the sanitation bin.

“It’s important that we get an idea of what happened before the files are doctored.” Jenna Cameron was flipping open a notepad she kept in her belt, thumbing to a clean lined page before slipping the expensive looking metal pen from her shirt pocket and twisting it to a point. “The more we can keep your Mom out of this the better.”

“Right. I love starting my day by lying to my Mom.” Kyle wet his lips and slipped the face mask on, hooking it over his ears as he ticked the safety glasses over his eyes. He lifted the sheet, letting himself slip past the moment of humanity laid bare and horrifying into a clinical space that parsed what he was seeing into small pieces that could be built into a whole. 

The body was middle aged with graying pale hair. The clothes were folded and tucked into a large ziplock bag that was slipped under the rolling cart that kept the autopsy tools. The body was male with flaccid looking skin, paunchy gut, and no initial visible markings beside the obvious. He had two small red marks on the sides of his nose signifying him as a glasses wearer. Acne scars pitted both of his cheeks under pale, nearly invisible eyelashes and brows. The man’s face was covered with a vivid handprint. “I think we can rule out a lot of possible COD’s.”

“It’ll be marked as a heart attack, but it doesn’t give us any insight into how this happened.” Max shifted his weight, hips cocked to one side as he hooked his thumbs into his belt. 

“Okay, Ned Nickerson. I’m guessing Alien in the desert with a handprint.”

Max rolled his eyes and ignored the barb. “Could it have been Noah?”

“The handprint fades in a week. Noah’s supposedly been dead longer than that. Unless we run with the idea that the person you murdered in the desert wasn’t Noah.” Kyle opened the body’s mouth, hooking behind the line of bottom teeth and frowning slightly at the smell. “This is still vivid. The body isn’t decomposed and it’s past rigor mortis. Dead maybe a day, two at most.”

“We found it near the edge of the Mescalero Reservation.” Max cleared his throat. “That’s where Granalith is located.”

“What are you implying?”

“I didn’t kill this guy.”

“Good to know you haven’t kept up your murder spree.”

“Isobel and Michael have bee-”

“Do you really think it could be someone out at Granalith?” Kyle’s gaze snapped to where Max was staring at the man’s face like he would be able to read the edges of the handprint. “They’re mostly _kids_, Evans. I don’t think they’re out murdering-”

“The handprint is too large for children,” Jenna interjected, interrupting them both. The room went quiet for a moment and she paused, folding her arms as she tucked her thumb into the notepad to mark her place and point at the print with the tip of her pen. She looked uncomfortable, brows drawn together as she shifted. “That’s a man’s hand.”

“What about Hunter’s guy?” Max took a half step forward, peering at the handprint that covered the man’s jaw. “What’s his name? Levi-?”

“No.” Jenna blinked and looked up. “Not possible.”

“He have an alibi I don’t know about?” Max started, smile going teasing before dropping with a startled blink at the flat look she gave him.

“It’s not him.” Jenna looked back down, studying the body with a critical eye, arms crossed over her chest and hip cocked at an angle. “It’s also none of your damn business, Evans.”

Kyle muffled the amused smile but couldn’t hide the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners. He closed the body’s mouth and turned the head, pausing. “He’s missing some hair.”

“As in, he’s balding?” Jenna looked momentarily grateful for the subject change, slipping around the edge of the table to stand opposite of him.

“As in, someone had a hand in his hair?” Kyle frowned behind the medical mask, bending to get a closer look. “They had him by the hair when they handprint whammied him.” He paused, closing his eyes before taking a long breath through his nose. “We have got to find a better word for that.”

“That means the assailant was taller than he was.” Max shook his head, reaching to palm his hat and tuck it under his arm as he moved to the top of the metal table. “That’s not hard. This guy is what? Five nine?”

“That is a perfectly average height.” Kyle turned the man’s head, fingers dimpling in his cheek as he studied the edge of the bright, kaleidoscoping handprint. There were no visible impressions outside the way it shimmered like an oil slick catching the light. “Do we know who he is? Was he carrying ID?”

“Brian Anderson. Thirty four. Worked at the local Hobby Lobby on the overnight. Coworkers said he was quiet, kept to himself.” Jenna shrugged. “Which means he’s either a serial killer or an MRA.” She frowned. “Honestly not sure which is worse. Or if those are mutually exclusive.”

“He’s got a record, one public indecency that put him on the sex offenders registry.” Max nodded a few times, tucking his bottom lip over his teeth as he squinted at the body on the table. “Lived alone, but has family in town. He doesn’t match the old pattern of vagrants and drug addicts.”

“This is someone new, obviously. The last one was Noah and he’s dead.”

“Are we sure about that?” Max frowned and glanced at Kyle. “Have you and Liz-”

The sound of his phone vibrating was loud in the soft, white noise of the morgue, caught between their breath and the low hum of the hood vent overhead. Kyle straightened, using his wrist to push the glasses up his face before hooking out of the gloves. He tossed them in the trash, taking a moment to twist out of the face mask. He had a simple black iPhone that was rumbling in his hand, insistent. “Speak of the devil.”

“Liz is calling you?” 

“We’re working together, remember? Relax, Evans.” He thumbed the call over, covering one ear with his hand and striding across the space to duck out into the hall. “Hey, babe.”

“Kyle, I need you right now.”

“Way to roll with it,” he laughed, glancing over his shoulder to watch the way Max Evans bristled with barely hidden delight. “What’s going on?”

“I think there’s an alien in the bunker.”

“You mean-”

“Kyle, like creepy, freaking-me-out alien.”

“Max is right here.”

“Not funny. Is he really? I need you guys. I’m sort of stuck.” 

“Wait, you’re serious?”

“Standing on a table with a bunsen burner levels of serious.”

“That-”

“Mierda, Kyle! No seas idiota y ven aquí. Estoy volviéndome loca y hay algo viscoso y resbaladizo intentando escapar de la placa de Petri, y estoy bastante segura de que lo voy a tener que matar con fuego y esta sala es estanca y no tengo tiempo _para tus gilipolleces_!” 

“Right.” Kyle ducked his head, rubbing his lips together before clearing his throat. “On my way.”

“Bring Max.” 

Kyle sighed, hanging up and turning to look at where Max and Jenna were standing shoulder to shoulder. They were a matched set of tall attitude in khaki sheriff’s uniforms. He glanced down at himself in his blue scrubs and surgical coat. “We need to go.”

**

Alex Manes’ mother lived in a simple duplex condo that was a sandstone beige with luridly pink bougainvillea growing over the garden wall. He’d been here twice, once to meet a short-lived second husband, and the second time just after he’d shipped off to BCT after high school. There was a pool in the back, the shallow end a bright mess of navy and coral hand-painted Mexican tile. He’d wanted her to talk him out of it, to talk him into a life that didn’t need him to fight a constant battle with the spectre of the past, but she’d simply told him to keep his mouth shut and make sure none of the Drills knew his name before week four. She was a lithe woman of average height with waist-length black hair that was going silver in a solid streak near her left temple. Bina Manes had never changed her name back to her maiden name, preferring the simplicity of it and not particularly interested in the work it would take to completely divest her first husband. She wasn’t flashy, just a native woman tucked into a pair of well-kept wranglers, unadorned cowboys boots in a natural leather tone, and a white t-shirt. Her only bit of whimsy was the five silver and turquoise rings she wore, the large silver squash blossom necklace, and the vintage turquoise stud earrings. Alex had inherited her face, the square jaw with the mild cleft in her chin, and the dark expressive eyes.

Bina Manes had mastered flat-eyed disinterest. She lived alone with two ageing dobermans and no remorse. She didn’t look surprised when he arrived, pulling the door open before he’d knocked, and watched him with a familiar, black-eyed stare. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

It was as close to a greeting as he’d ever gotten. Alex Manes wasn’t young anymore and he didn’t think that his mom was waiting for him to show up. He didn’t tell himself stories about how much she’d loved him, how she wanted him to find her. The reality was, she hadn’t cared for motherhood. She hadn’t wanted to marry his father and hadn’t enjoyed being a mother. She’d pick his fingers off of her leg when he was small and deposit him back on the floor any time he’d come looking for comfort. She didn’t want to be bothered and now, she tapped out a cigarette, one of the long slim ones that looked like a toy against her slim dark fingers.

“Hi, Mom.” 

“Should I be expecting _everyone_ today?” She ducked her head, flicking the flint on a slim, silver-cased lighter that she slipped back into her pocket. She had a crease in her top lip when she took a drag off the small cigarette, soft lipstick color cracking over the edges into the age lines around her mouth. She sniffed, sticking her tongue out slightly to pick a piece of tobacco off the tip before flicking her eyes and eyebrows up at him expectantly. “Or are you just late?

Alex blinked, looking back to where he’d parked the car - making sure Michael hadn’t followed him. He’d asked him to stay put. “Who?”

“Harlan! Alex is here.” His mother turned, exhaling smoke before waving at him to enter. Behind her, down the short hall, Alex watched his oldest brother turn, hands kept at the small of his back in an informal parade rest, and glance to where he was standing in the doorway. The walls were blank, no pictures except a mirror hanging over a small table just before the front door. His mother’s dogs were sleeping in a pile near the kitchen, one raising an elegant head to watch him coldly before huffing once and settling back down.

“I knew you’d come,” Harlan said simply, voice even as he dropped out of stance and started towards Alex, step even and measured. His brother was the tallest, a good inch more than their father had been, with the same slim features tinted dark with his mother’s coloring. Alex froze, wanting to take a step back from the door frame, wanting to rescout the rooftop and the back alley. He’d taken fifteen minutes on the approach, scanning the area and trying to make sure he wasn’t missing anything. He couldn’t miss anything again.

Harlan was wearing a slim-cut black henley over dark jeans cuffed over practical boots. He seemed casual, just dropping out of parade rest and slipping a hand in the jeans pocket as he watched Alex quietly. It was uncanny, the way he and their mother were able to distill a look so quietly into complete disinterest and annoyance with just the way their mouth went flat and eyelids slipped half shut. Alex felt judged and found wanting without taking a step inside. “Where’s Flint?”

“The twins are coming?” Bina Manes frowned and rolled her eyes, shaking her head as she started down the hall toward Harlan. “I thought it was just the two of you.”

“The two-?” Alex felt his throat close around the words as Jesse Manes took a step into his line of sight from behind the hallway wall. Jesse Manes was dead; Alex had felt his blood cooling on his face. He could close his eyes and see his father face down and still in a puddle of tacky blood in the dark, the sound of Harlan’s laughter still echoing in his nightmares. Jesse Manes was dead, gunned down by a son made in his image. Jesse Manes was dead, but he tilted his chin slightly at Alex, a loose smile going slippery and threatening behind Alex’s mother. 

“No.”

“Alex.” 

“Surprised?” Harlan stood shoulder to shoulder with their father, his mother halfway between them in the hall. His mother wasn’t a soft woman; she wasn’t kind. His mother wasn’t someone who would cast her arms around him like a net to gather him close in his grief or his joy. She was a semi-stranger between him and terror.

The day was sunny, winter light licking at the adobe walls and scattering around the small front yard that was fenced by a thick wall. The path was patchwork stone, edged with scrub grasses and the prickly landscaping of the desert. The roof of the condos were broken by a thick firewall that repeated every fourth door. Behind him was a gate and the large parking lot that had a section of metal-roofed carports, offering slight shade and cover. 

Behind him was the open flat of asphalt and Michael. Michael who was unprotected and unaware. Michael who earlier had kissed him breathless in the driver’s seat, reaching past him to pull the seat back lever. Michael who had clambered awkwardly to wedge himself between the steering wheel and Alex’s body on the side of the road with a soft aching whimper of his name and all the need of ten years of wanting packed into hands and lips and teeth. Michael was waiting by the car and Alex was trapped in the doorway of his mother’s condo staring at a ghost. 

“Mom. _Mom_, you need to come with me.”

“Alex.” Harlan sighed, world weary and tipped his head. “She’s not going anywhere.”

Three things happened before Alex could register any of them as single moments: a puff of dust snapped out of the wall just next to him, he was yanked backwards violently with a scream of his name in a panicked tone, and his mother went limp on her feet like a puppet with her strings cut, entire frame simply going slack and empty as she breathed.

“_Alex!_ Alex _get out_!” 

He was being manhandled backwards, tugged and pulled in blunt shoves that caught at his clothes and lifted him off the ground, a puff of dust snapping into the ground again, the dirt catching in the sunlight before settling back to the earth. Alex was staring at where his father was standing behind Harlan, his mother frozen in the hallway. He was stuttering mentally and he could feel his training trying to kick in, kick in over the impossible reality that was framed in the door. His heel skidded and he caught himself, shocking back into reality, the sound crashing into him first. Michael was yelling behind him, a snap crackle of sniper fire, his brother’s laugh. He turned, feeling his prosthetic twist angrily at the sudden move, a little torsion on the socket slipping before settling again. It was a painful pinch and he knew his skin would be raw tonight.

Alex turned and ran, the gate ripping out of the wall and clanging loudly against the ground as he gritted his teeth and started to sprint, ignoring the sharp pinch and flinging himself back to where Michael was leaning out from where he was hunkered behind his mother’s Tundra. Alex had one goal: get to him. 

Michael’s eyes went wide and he screamed a warning, flinging a trash can with a thought across the parking lot, the speed of it blowing past Alex with a wall of air. He skidded, dragged forward by the invisible pull. He had the vague impression of movement to his left and turned, automatically cataloguing possible threats even as the world seemed to erupt into chaos. The trashcan slapped into the ground with a woman’s shout and a loud plastic clatter. Alex watched incredulously as a tall woman lifted her hand, crushed the trash can, and tossed them an annoyed look. She was lithe with dark hair that curled around her jaw, heavy-lidded dark eyes and a hawkish face that snarled into motion as she lifted a small rock with a flick of fingers, eyes sliding back to where Michael was dragging Alex. The rock slapped into the wall next to Alex’s shoulder. It wasn’t a _sniper_. She was something _else_.

“Stupid. _Stupid_. Stupid,” he breathed, feeling the wash of calm slip into his veins as he shut down the panic and picked up the training. He slipped his Glock from where he’d holstered it under his jacket, a fluid practiced move he’d perfected over tours in the Middle East. He was firing before he’d finished aiming, laying down cover before finding a target.

The woman lifted both of her hands, fingers spreading as she moved, flicking the bullets left and right like she was playing piano, elegant and beautiful. Across the parking lot, a black man set down a pair of trash bags. He seemed calm, resigned as he brushed a palm over his short hair and tipped dark eyes in their direction. Alex almost screamed for him to run, but the man moved in a quick stride to the woman’s side and fell into formation behind her. He was taller than she was, broad through the shoulders over a thick waist. He was handsome, round-faced with a generous mouth and well-kept beard. 

Alex could only watch in a growing flood of horror as the man’s hands started to glow. Alex reeled. The stakes had changed, the game evolving before he’d had a breath to consider his next move. He’d underestimated his brother again. 

The black man slipped to his knee, setting both hands on the pavement. The rumble was immediate, the metal roof of the covered parking spaces starting to rattle loudly. 

Alex kept firing, quick crackle gunfire that seemed to fall flat as Michael was screaming, voice gone hoarse. He dropped the clip, reloading with a fluid motion and continued to fire. Alex could see a bubble that was surrounding him in the way it rippled with each hit of stone the woman was flinging at him, a staccato peppering that haze like a heat wave in front of him. He could feel Michael behind him, could feel the panic, the wave of emotion that roiled outward. He could feel it as it pulled closer, tugging at him to get him to pace backward as he lay cover fire. 

The black man closed his eyes, hands going bright and red, veins visible as the glow traveled past his wrists and into his forearms. The pavement rolled, flipping out and starting to crack like he’d shaken it like a floor rug.

Behind Alex, his Ford rumbled to life, the tires squealing as Michael managed to get it started and into reverse, flinging the door open and dragging Alex into the passenger seat. Alex didn’t see the bloody nose, the way Michael was pale and shivering under a layer of fine sweat as he fumbled into drive. 

His mother lived in a simple duplex condo that was a sandstone beige with luridly pink bougainvillea growing over the garden wall. His mother was inside with his brother and a man who should be dead. Alex was panting, wild eyed as he looked around, trying to find balance as Michael slammed on the brakes when a young, red-headed girl scampered into the street, chasing a soccer ball. She looked thirteen with the impression of future height and a gangly gait. She had on a bright pink shirt, sequin heart applique sparkling in the wan winter light. Her red hair caught blond highlights where it swung in the high ponytail. Her shoes matched her shirt. It was strange the things he noticed. He watched as the roofs over the covered parking spaces started to sway and buckle, crashing into the parking lot with a scream of car alarms and metal. Alex stared as the young girl stood, blinking at them before smiling bright and throwing her arms out like she might do a quick playful cartwheel, hands igniting in flames.

“Oh, _fuck_.”

The Ford squealed, fishtailing as the wheels spun on the roiling pavement, and the girl windmilled her arms and threw fire at the front of the vehicle. The windshield shattered inward- the glass slapping against the invisible defense Michael was holding. It sparkled in a wave of flame and heat that seemed to lick over Alex’s skin for a bright second before snuffing out. He opened his eyes from where he’d turned, flinching from the fire with a primal instinct and saw Michael’s hand and the simmering roil of flame caught just beyond. Michael was whining around ragged breaths, hissing them through his teeth as he shook violently with effort, the tremble of muscle failure, of a body pushed too far. 

“Drive. _Guerin_. Just drive.” Alex turned in the seat, firing the last of his clip out the back window, watching it shatter and explode outward. Behind them, the dark haired woman and the black man watched before turning to the sound of his father’s voice barking an order. It was unmistakable even without the word registering. Jesse Manes leaned an indolent shoulder against the wall around his mother’s condo. He was breathing, a smirk playing over his face as he gave a quick light fingered wave at where Alex was staring out the shattered rear window. Jesse Manes was watching the chaos with an impish smirk and a light laugh, eyes glittering in delight. “Guerin! _Michael,_ just go. We have to _go_.”

The Ford skidded forward, skipping over a heavy pothole that cracked open under the front right tire, and arrowed to the young girl on fire. The asphalt sizzled, going soft around the column of flame. He heard Michael cough wetly and hiss a groan, the girl shoved to the side as they skidded through the heat and forward towards the exit. Alex looked behind them, out the shattered back window and started to shiver. 

His father moved to stand next to the dark haired woman and the black man, the young girl in flames clicking off and leaning against his father’s hip with a frown. Jesse Manes shook his head, petting the girl’s hair before the image of him rippled and shrank, fading out to a handsome young man with light sandy blond hair, blue eyes rimmed with thick black lashes, and heavy dark brows. It was familiar, the change. He’d seen it before. Alex didn’t have time to think about skinwalkers, his brother, or the man they’d met in the salvage yard when Michael screamed his name and he turned back around.

Alex froze in the seat, paused by a moment of violent and sudden recognition. Noah Bracken was standing in the middle of the road. He was tall and wrong, younger looking with shorn black hair, cut by scars tracking over his brow. Noah Bracken wasn’t the soft lawyer Alex had known where he stood in the middle of the parking lot and settled into a fighting stance, glittering determination pulling his face into sharp lines. He stood his ground, lifting a wickedly curved knife, and Alex felt the moment Michael made a decision.

“You’re not real.” Michael hissed, pressing the gas down as his jaw went hard. Michael was pale, hollow-eyed, bleeding from his nose and his ears. He was shaking and murderous, staring down the specter of his sister’s pain and intent. “You’re _not real_.”

Alex slapped a hand against the dashboard and held on, waiting for the slam of a body to the hood and gasping when Noah simply slipped into the metal, past them in the vehicle, plucking the gun out of Alex’s hand with deft fingers, and floated gently in a delicate twirl to face them as the Ford drove _through_ him like a ghost.

“Was that?” Alex tried for a moment to wrap his brain around the dead man who’d slipped through the SUV. “I’m-?”

Michael exhaled like a gut punch, hissing as he touched his stomach and pulled away bloody fingers. Behind them, Alex watched the ghost flip the knife and slide it into a holster on his thigh. The group watched them drive, falling into formation behind Noah with an ease of long practice. They were five threats that Alex hadn’t anticipated. Alex was caught off guard and beside him Michael was bleeding and trying to stay focused on the drive, on the escape. 

“Michael,” Alex whispered, reaching across to hold the wheel steady, feeling the sticky slip of blood. 

“I know,” Michael nodded, bleary eyed as they peeled away, rocking violently over the speed bumps paced through the complex. He managed a wan smile, blood on his teeth and staining his lips red. “It’s _worse_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All spanish by the incredible Lire. Seriously. She's a stunning human being.
> 
> Much thanks to my beta for putting up with me whining from a whole other continent.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He got to the driver’s door, pulling it open and ignoring the way his heart tried to climb into his mouth at the sight. Michael was slippery with blood, pale and taking short, shallow breaths. Alex reached past him, turning the engine off, and then focused on where Michael was bleeding out.
> 
> “Shit.”
> 
> “It’s not so bad,” Michael whispered, barely more than a mumble that trickled past his teeth and Alex glanced up. Michael Guerin was watching him, wonder in his eyes. Alex knew that look. Alex knew what it felt like from the inside, the soft-eyed wonder of seeing something beautiful before death.
> 
> “Don’t you fucking dare,” Alex snarled, reaching to start carefully peeling Michael’s fingers away from the wound. “You are _not allowed_. You are not allowed to go anywhere. Stop looking at me like that.”
> 
> “Don’t ruin this for me,” Michael managed.
> 
> “Do not-” Alex flattened his mouth, shooting a black rage look at where Michael was smiling soft at him, close and golden eyed. “Don’t you dare leave me.”
> 
> “Isn’t that my line?”
> 
> Alex looked back down, pulling his jacket to fold more securely and press against the deep gash. “Stay with me.”

Chapter 5

Harlan watched his brother's Ford careen around the far corner, rocking dangerously from side to side as it popped over a curb and skidded out of sight. He ducked, closing his eyes at the sudden cold slip of rage that flickered and subsumed into his lungs. "Whiskey." He could nearly feel the way she stiffened, heard the soft scuff of the team's boots as they froze. "Report."

"Wounded and rabbiting, Sir."

"November." Harlan laced his fingers together in front of him, calculating as he twisted them, popping the joints in quick succession before looking up. "How wounded?"

The parking lot was quiet until the lid of a large black trash can caught in the wind and slammed sharply shut. He glanced up then, flicking his black gaze to where his team was standing in formation at attention, staring ahead. Tango's red hair flipped out in front of her, catching in the breeze. Whiskey's face was blank, haughty and hawkish and he didn't linger on her profile, turning instead to stroll to where November was standing in lead. He was the tallest, handsome and sharp-featured with thick black hair, black brows, and a wicked curving scar. Harlan had always wondered that the aliens had looked as diverse as the humans they impersonated. He'd wondered if they had influenced human genetics or if human diversity had affected theirs.

The team waited, practiced and aware as he stretched his fingers out, inspecting his cuticles before tucking his hand into his pocket and snaring November's gaze.

"Sir," November began. "Permission to move, Sir."

"Granted."

November fell to a perfect parade rest and slipped the knife from its holster, flipping it with deft fingers to catch the blade, presenting the handle to Harlan. "He’s bleeding, Sir."

“Critical?” Harlan took the blade, thumb sliding along the grip before taking a slow half-step closer to where November tightened his jaw. The alien was the same height as him, lean and handsome in their way. Harlan cocked his head, rolling the blade over his knuckles once and catching it deftly.

“Unclear, Sir.”

Harlan snapped into motion, grabbing the alien by the shoulder and shoving the blade through his shirt, through him. November startled, a short pained noise gasping out of him that he swallowed back, jaw flinching as he reacted on instinct - phasing around the knife, around the way Harlan pushed through the slice to hold it with a snarl. Harlan stepped close, holding the blade where it was slithering sharp just past the catch of fabric.

November swallowed, a small wet sound beside Harlan’s ear. He seemed to shimmer like a heatwave, a tiny tremble flickered around the edges of him. Self preservation had him phased between states, a constant quantum leap that tickled along Harlan’s exposed skin where it was buried in the shifting center of mass. November felt like the moment before a lightning strike. It was reaching, his gift, reaching to keep him safe. Harlan tightened his fingers on the alien’s shoulder. He was solid there, focused only on the knife. Harlan could have pressed closer, forced fully into the shifting state of November, but left it at the knife and his hand to the wrist as he watched the alien up close. He wanted his displeasure to be evident, weighted, and as lethal as the knife waiting for something to cut. Harlan was a patient man, but he didn’t like to be disappointed. He didn’t like failure. “How long can you hold phase, November?”

Behind where he and November stood, the rest of the team were staring ahead, unflinching and unmoving as the threat glinted in the watery winter sun, the tip of the blade moving in a small back and forth as Harlan breathed. Only Whiskey dared to glance at him, eyes dark and expressive, mouth warm-looking. He cocked his head at her - a question - and she simply flicked her eyes forward again. 

Whiskey was very well trained.

The parking lot was silent, not even the muffled shift of fabric or creak of boot leather after the question. The silence stretched like puddled water, reaching for the doors. There were rows of tidy adobe two-story buildings with a fire wall between them every second doorway. Each had a small plot of yard in front, another in the back with a deck that curved away from the outside edge of the fencing and back to the small shade tree and shade sails stretched against the unrelenting summer sun. It was cold now, the snow waiting its turn to coat the ground. The door to his mother’s condo was open, swung inward and gaping. His mother’s dobermans waited patiently at her feet where she stood glassy-eyed and empty, staring at the wall where they’d left her. Her part was complete.

“Two minutes, Sir.” November was trembling, but carefully contained.

“How long has it been?”

“I don’t know, Sir.”

“What happens-”

“_Please_, Sir.” November whispered the last, just soft enough to slip past his lips and touch Harlan’s ears.

Harlan turned, lifting his chin slightly, and looked down his nose at November. “Do not disobey me again, November.”

“Sir.”

“No more unplanned visits. No more... romantic _chats_.”

November flickered, eyes slanting to hold Harlan’s with a sudden enraged defiance. Harlan didn’t back up, didn’t move, just let the other squirm. He had pinned him as surely as a butterfly to wax. The team behind them watched. It was important that they understood. Harlan leaned forward, leaned into the rage. He was surprised when he felt November tense under his fingers, quiver against the length of the blade. November tensed, ready to snarl forward and through Harlan. November was ready to die.

“_No!”_ Whiskey took a half-step forward, hand out, and November fought against an invisible wall, snarling against her hold. She had moved to save Harlan, abortive like she was fighting an ingrained order of attention.

Harlan smiled, slippery and unsurprised as he twisted the knife up and through the misting electric feel of November and pulled the blade back. It was sluggish as November panted past his teeth, eyes black and focused in a simmering rage on where Harlan was so human. Harlan sucked his teeth and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small electronic device, thumb on the button. “Don’t give me a reason, November.” November’s eyes widened and he fell back into line. “Let him go, Whiskey. He forgot himself for a moment.”

He flipped the blade, handing it back to where November was curling into himself, a slight buckle of proud shoulders. “Take this to Sabretti in Palo Alto. You’re dismissed.” Harlan pulled the fabric of November’s shirt forward, wiping the bit of blood off his fingers, and widened his eyes at the alien. He reached up, touching the line of November’s scar. “_Understood_?”

“Yes, Sir.” November took the knife back, fingers shifting on the hilt.

“Excellent.” He took a step back, turning to deliberately show November his back, staring out at the parking lot in the direction his brother had fled. He clapped once, rubbing his palms together before looking back. “Get to work.”

**

“Pull over.”

“Not yet.”

“Guerin!”

Michael was driving with one hand white-knuckled around the steering wheel, face pale and skin waxy, pallid and colorless around his lips, eyes red-rimmed. It made the blood on his mouth vibrant and terrifying. He had the other hand pressed against his stomach, blood smearing over his wrist and along his forearm, his shirt sticking wetly to his skin. He sniffed loudly, snarling a little around a wince and kept driving, determined and hard-jawed as he wove through traffic. The wind whipping through the vehicle wrecked his curls. Alex was taking in the moment in small pieces; the color of the blood between Michael’s fingers, the tiny cuts on his wrists, his forearms, his face and the shattered glass glittering on the floor, the shocking cold of the air outside slicing at him, the sound of wheels sliding through traffic. 

“Not yet,” Michael managed, a determined whisper.

Alex was sideways in the seat, twisting out of his coat and trying to get to a position where he could apply pressure to the wound. “You’re going to go into shock and crash the car and ki-”

“Alex.” Michael’s jaw worked, eyes glued to the road around a soft, pained noise as he turned sharply, swerving around corners like he was shaking off a tail. He licked the blood from his top lip again, frowning and letting go of the wheel briefly to swipe at his face, smearing the red messily over the back of his left wrist before reaching for the wheel again. “Not yet. Not far enough away.”

They were heading toward the river, careening past a dilapidated-looking apartment complex and weaving through the two lanes of traffic. An angry horn bopped a short bleat of noise behind them that Alex ignored. He could barely hear over the sound of his breath hissing past his teeth in short pants, heartbeat a thrumming bass in his ears. He was forcing down the prickling fear of past moments of incredible noise, the moments of crackling gunfire, the moments that changed his life forever in sudden chunks of violence, concussive blasts, and fear. He was fighting again. Alex could feel his brain go white-cold and then snap into motion. 

He reached over, grabbed the wheel, and yanked. The Ford careened across two lanes of traffic and over a gravel edge of a strip mall parking lot. The low squat buildings were hemorrhaging the gutters, grass was growing off the edge of the roof, and angry prickled scrub brush thick with thorns was stabbing up through cracks in the cement. There were faded papers plastered to the windows and one inaccurate Open sign hanging at an angle. Another sunbleached sign offered full set acrylic for twenty five dollars. 

Alex didn’t care, jaw set as Michael made a soft noise, too injured for a full protest. Alex grabbed the emergency brake, tugging it up and setting the beleaguered SUV into a shuddering tire-locked skid. They rocked over a battered cement parking block, tire popping with a sibilant hiss before the rim ground angrily over the opposite parking block and the SUV stumbled to a stop.

It felt like a breath, just one moment of utter stillness before Alex punched into motion again. He shoved out the door, skimming around the front of the hood; it was dented with holes punched into the metal. He could hear the tick of the engine, the purr of it as it idled angrily. The vehicle stuck and spitting, panting as loud as Guerin from the driver’s seat. 

He got to the driver’s door, pulling it open and ignoring the way his heart tried to climb into his mouth at the sight. Michael was slippery with blood, pale and taking short, shallow breaths. Alex reached past him, turning the engine off, and then focused on where Michael was bleeding out.

“Shit.”

“It’s not so bad,” Michael whispered, barely more than a mumble that trickled past his teeth and Alex glanced up. Michael Guerin was watching him, wonder in his eyes. Alex knew that look. Alex knew what it felt like from the inside, the soft-eyed wonder of seeing something beautiful before death.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Alex snarled, reaching to start carefully peeling Michael’s fingers away from the wound. “You are _not allowed_. You are not allowed to go anywhere. Stop looking at me like that.”

“Don’t ruin this for me,” Michael managed.

“Do not-” Alex flattened his mouth, shooting a black rage look at where Michael was smiling soft at him, close and golden eyed. “Don’t you dare leave me.”

“Isn’t that my line?”

Alex looked back down, pulling his jacket to fold more securely and press against the deep gash. “Stay with me.”

“That’s it. You’re right,” Michael closed his eyes, head falling back against the headrest. He was clammy, skin sickly-looking and pale. He winced, eyes flicking open with a spark of anger that dovetailed swiftly into something like desire before going flat again. Alex pressed harder, reaching up to cup his jaw before pressing for a pulse. “You trying to kiss me, Private?”

“Shut up,” Alex snapped, shaking his head and closing his eyes, searching for the flutter of a pulse. It was there, a light slow stutter under his fingers. He focused, trying to remember the glanced-at notes on a file he’d skimmed. He tried to remember what was normal for Michael. He tried to remember. Michael was quiet under his touch, eyes closed and lashes heavy on his cheeks. The tips were nearly gold, paler and beautiful. His mouth was open, breathing almost invisible. There was a freckling of blood on his cheek that matched the light cinnamon-colored freckles that were visible this close. He could get lost in the cut marble perfection of this face, this man. He could get lost in Michael’s beauty instead of the rising tide of panic. 

He used Michael’s uncharacteristic stillness, shoving down the overwhelming feeling of wrongness, to follow the ingrained steps of triage: casualty evaluation, check pulse, airways, bleeding, wound assessment, find exit wounds if necessary. He could list the litany of it, of how to save a life, how to take a life. He moved his hands to Guerin’s jaw, pressing a thumb lightly to his mouth and feeling the tickle of breath before dropping to the wound. No exit wound, just the long gash that gaped in his skin, white-edged under the smeared blood. He pressed the folded-up fabric of his coat to it, worming a hand carefully between Michael’s back and the seat to keep pressure.

Around them, Albuquerque continued. The parking lot was empty, a plastic bag caught on the exposed rebar holding the cement parking blocks in place fluttering angrily in the blustery breeze of passing cars. A dark blue cadillac glittered in the winter sun, deep bass throbbing so loudly it seemed to shake Alex’s ribs. Traffic continued. The day continued. The clouds stayed nearly static high in the sky, beautiful and electric white caught and threaded with the black power lines where one hawk was perched and watching them in mild disinterest. Alex wasn’t paying attention to anything but the task under his hands, the man under his hands. Michael was quiet. Alex felt the moment he went watery and loose, passing out and slipping under.

“No. No, don’t you dare.” Alex squared his jaw, snarling into motion and heaved, dragging Michael from the vehicle to get him flat on his back. He hated that it took too long. He hated that he wasn’t supposed to move him. He hated that he was doing all the wrong things in this very second but he _needed _leverage. He _needed_ to get pressure. He _needed_ Michael. “Fuck you’re heavy,” he managed, unable to ease him with the weight braced on his leg and letting him slump down his body and onto the pavement. He stepped, straddling his hips and eased down onto one knee, other leg stretched awkwardly until he could get his whole body behind the pressure, bent forward and forehead pressed to Michael’s chin as he whispered quietly to Michael’s silence.

“Please.” Alex Manes wasn’t a man who begged, but for Michael he was always making exceptions. “_Please._”

He should have noticed the way everything suddenly seemed to roll to a stop. He should have noticed the way the hawk took wing. He should have noticed the small thump of a Toyota tapping the bumper of a small Chevy. He should have noticed the way the pedestrians who had been ignoring them pointedly simply stopped mid-word. He should have noticed.

But he couldn’t stop the silent pleas. He couldn’t stop begging Michael to stay. He couldn’t stop or Michael might actually leave him this time. He might go somewhere Alex couldn’t follow.

It wasn’t until the sleek pearl-colored Audi sighed to a tight stop next to him, engine a nearly silent purr that he realized the world around them had paused. 

“What?” Isobel Evans slammed out of the car in perfect black boots, slim-cut dark denim, and a tailored blouse decorated with perfectly curated agate jewelry. “_What?_” She was stunning at nearly six foot with blond hair glimmering in the sun, mouth dropped open in concern, and attitude of unconcerned superiority shattering at the sight of Alex covered in Michael’s blood and Michael still under his hands. “What? _Michael_.”

The relief that coursed through him at the sight of her shattered just as quickly at the memory of ghosts. Instinct had him prepared for a fight. He reached for his weapon, but his gun was gone. He’d reached for it by rote, forgetting momentarily that it had been plucked from his hands. “Stop! Stay there!” 

Isobel threw her hands up, eyes wide as she glanced between him and Michael. “Alex?”

“Stop.” Alex scrambled, keeping one hand on Michael as he snatched for something he could use to defend them. His trust had shattered, remembering his father as a shimmering shape and the ghost of Noah Bracken staring at him as it slipped through to slice at Michael. “Don’t come any closer,” he snarled, scanning quickly and snagging a large chunk of asphalt to brandish. He panted through gritted teeth, eyes wide as he squared up, one hand on Michael and the other holding the rock at the ready. “Prove you’re real.”

“What? Alex-”

“_Prove you’re you_! Do it!”

Isobel flattened her mouth at him, arching an eyebrow as she cocked her jaw angrily. “You had a shitty haircut in high school and a shitty haircut right now.” She waved a hand. “Are we good now? I will go _through you_ if I have to.”

Alex didn’t have time to nod before she was shouldering in next to him and placing her delicate, long-fingered hands over the mess of Michael’s wound. Alex didn’t have time to ask anything else as Isobel’s face went stubborn and fierce, eyes closing on a sharp inhale and her hands went alight - red and glowing as the lights of her Audi flickered and the dead flood lamps on the strip mall shattered in a spectacular shower of white sparks. 

The world paused for Isobel Evans. 

“How-?”

“I heard him.” She whispered it like she’d been surprised, touched and emotional about the statement even as Michael took a gasping breath under her hands. His eyes rolled open, focusing momentarily on her before he promptly passed out again. The wound was half healed, the blood slowed. He was alive. He was alive and breathing. Alex consoled himself that Michael’s breathing was even. Isobel smiled at Michael, a moment of utter devotion and tenderness that Alex understood. 

“That’s... three hours?” Alex looked around, at the Audi and back to her, confusion writ easily across his face. He startled, eyebrows flicking up around wide eyes. “Can you telep-?”

She rolled her eyes and glanced over at him. “I was trying to change my name. The Second Judicial Court is in Albuquer-” She nodded, looked confused, and scrambled to the side to heave angrily onto the cracked pavement. Isobel Evans was puking on the sidewalk, convulsing onto hands and knees. She made a soft pained noise and made a face twisting between disgust, pouting, and a frown before her eyes rolled back and she slumped to the side. She was breathing. Michael was breathing. There was blood everywhere. Alex stared at the two passed out aliens on the ground, to the blown out windows and wrecked interior of his Ford, and then at the still-running sleek luxury lines of Isobel’s Audi.

“_Shit._”

**

The doors hissed open, a puff of pressurized air streaming from the vents in the ceiling and Kyle ducked into the bunker. He’d beaten Evans. The main room was lit from above, the lights casting a dim blue and green light around the cement structure, a purple light to his left puddling on the far table in the alcove, and a familiar golden spotlight pointed away from where Liz Ortecho stood on the long table in the center of the room. She glanced over once, snatching her gaze away and back to the stacks of test tubes and petri dishes. He recognized the heavy brass-based lamp she held like a club with the black lamp head pointed towards the alcove.

“Are we threatening things?” He pointed at her and grabbed the rail, ready to haul himself quickly down the steps when she threw out a hand to stop him. “Threatening _me_? I mean. I like the whole table action, reminds me of sophomore year house parti-”

“There’s _something_ in here,” Liz told him, interrupting him without preamble.

“That was very vague, Liz.”

She didn’t look away from the other side of the room. “Kyle, just trust me. There is something in that dish and it wants to get out. I’m freaking out okay. I’m terrified.” She was speaking in a quick run on sentence that meant she was caught in the thought loop. He remembered it. He remembered the way she would get caught in a feedback loop of anxiety and brilliance, walking in quick circles, all hands and dark hair. He would take a moment to just enjoy the sight, usually. He might have taken a moment now, eyes scanning over the way she was a taut line of tense anticipation. “I’m not putting this lamp down until I am certain it’s contained, because it tried to fucking come at me. It tried to get to me, Kyle.”

“Okay, slow down, Slugger.” 

Liz rolled her eyes in his general direction, canting him a black look even as she continued to hold the lamp like a baseball bat. “I’m serious, Kyle.”

“It’s hard to take you seriously on a table top.” He returned the look and held up both hands in a show of compliance. “I’m going to go look.”

“No.”

“I’m going to look,” he repeated, taking the steps at a slow walk, watching her before pointing at the platform. “Over here?”

“Kyle-”

“Just going to take a peek.” He backed away from where she was starting to shift her grip on the lamp, sending a beam of light in a quick shaky back and forth over the ceiling. She was wide-eyed and wild-haired, tensely perched in a crouch as he paced lightly to the stairs. “Just a quick-” 

“Be careful?”

He took her words as acquiescence and darted onto the second landing, tiptoeing up to the table, a slight chug of whirling, processed air crawling over the back of his neck as he looked at the glittering puddle on the floor, water and something else in a pile of broken glass. There were test tubes waiting on the right hand side of the table, a stick test of glass piping prickling out of a soft wax tray. The glass on the floor came from the scattered dishes on the left side of the table, sprawling away from the center of the heat lamp and onto the floor. Kyle moved closer, head cocked idly to the side like he was already planning a retreat even as he slipped closer. The table was quiet, the agitator rolling in a slow cycle along the wall. Behind him, he could nearly feel the laser beam stare Liz had trained on him, followed vaguely by the threatening beam of light from her defensive lamp. He shook his head, frowning and relaxing at the innocuous pile of experiment equipment. 

“Liz. There’s nothing he-” The dish under the lamp slammed forward two inches, lunging at him. “Oh, _fuck!_” 

Kyle Valenti startled in a full body panic, stumbling back a few steps and nearly tripping down the stairs under the sound of his name cracking on Liz’s scream. He pointed at the thing in the dish, the way it seemed to shift - watching him, aware of him - before scrambling back up the steps to the door, leaving Liz on her table with her lamp. “Liz, what the _fuck_?”

“I told you!”

“What the fuck is that? Where did it come from? _What_?”

“I have no idea!” 

They were yelling at each other, wild-voiced and echoing in the space as the beam of Liz’s lamp wobbled over the ceiling and then back around to the table. The bunker didn’t care about their panic, the vents hissing on with a small squall of noise before the air churned in fresh and cool. Kyle was panting in the doorway, staring between where Liz was perched and the threat in the petri dish. “It tried to get me!”

“That’s what I’ve been saying!”

“I’m getting very tired of being threatened by weird shit, Liz.” He swallowed, pulling the professional calm around him and continuing to point at the dish under the heat lamp before looking back at her.

“I think if we hit it with a blast of cold it will go dormant again.”

“Dormant?”

“It’s a sample, Kyle. The heat did something. Like, I don’t know? Maybe a mold-”

“That’s not like any mold I’ve studied, Liz.”

“Alien mold spore? It just... it’s not like I have any idea what is going on! I’m just trying to examine the DNA strand-”

“_Liz_. Focus. Cold?”

She nodded. “I think.”

“Good enough for me.” He blew out a breath and turned in one quick circle before snapping and launching into motion. “Cold. Cold, cold, cold. Gotcha.” He turned, ducking back out the doors and holding himself at a lean while he looked around the hall to grab the fire extinguisher and haul back in. He waved it at her, pushing the lever and tugging the pin. He grabbed the hose, slipping down the steps and moving at a quick, even pace towards the alcove. He waved a hand at Liz when she hissed his name, tight and choked from behind her teeth. “Ready?”

“I don’t know if I can get down, Kyle.” 

“Do you trust me?” He raised both eyebrows at her and she nodded tightly. He blew out a breath and tipped his head in a fast assent at the table on the landing. Liz Ortecho gathered her courage and unplugged the lamp with a quick jerk and eased out of the safety of her perch. She scampered to where he was brandishing the fire extinguisher. Kyle could feel the lamp she’d been using tapping him on the shoulder. She pointed around him, nodding at their target on the left-hand side of the table near the warm purple heat lamps. 

“Try not to get the other samples. It would ruin-”

“Priorities, Liz. Have some.” He glanced back at her. “Please.”

“_Right._” He was sliding up the stairs when she continued, nearly helpless to the scientific inquiry. “But... you know, _try_?”

“No guarantees,” he managed swallowing around a mirrored fear when he finally saw the swirling slosh of bisected gray - feathery and metallic like iron shavings moving to a magnet - moving in the dish. He couldn’t help the primal shudder at the otherness. 

“I’ll take it.”

“Good.” He didn’t pause, just opened the extinguisher up, a cloud of CO2 powered potassium bicarbonate hissing and thrilling through the space, coating the left side of the table with a white residue. The space went cloudy, the wet cold scent filling his nose - reminding him oddly of Christmas in the mall.

“That’s enough.”

Kyle held the spray of the fire extinguisher for two more solid hissed puffs before Liz started tapping needily at his shoulder. 

“_Kyle._”

He glanced back, taking one more preemptive pop of the extinguisher before letting it fall to hang at his side. “Now I’m done.”

**

"Pull over here."

"That's not the bunker, Max." Jenna frowned, thumbing the cruiser to the side of the road, glancing behind her through the rear window at traffic before turning back to where her partner was pushing out the door. "That's the diner, Max."

"Coffee?" He tossed her a quick grin, one hand on the roof before tapping his fingers to the metal and barely waiting for her reply.

"I thought we were rescuing your girlfriend?"

"I can multitask, Cam."

"Not from what I remember," Jenna muttered to herself, flicking the engine off and unbuckling to follow. He was already jogging across the loose mid-morning traffic to catch the diner door as it was closing in a patron’s wake. Max Evans was a large man who could move quickly when he wanted.

The diner sat squarely on the corner of Main and Tupelo just outside the edge of the main square. A tawdry looking two-story brick building with a lurid neon sign poking off the front that wavered between the blue paint and patio seating and the staunch federalist style. Jenna didn't mind it, but she preferred the coffee from Beam Me Up. Justin was willing to make her a quick au lait pour over even when he was busy, drawing little space ships in the foam before handing it to her with a smile. Jenna liked her coffee pale and sweet and hidden in a cup. She didn't like it sitting and half burnt with a styrofoam cup that felt a little greasy. She didn't mind the diner, but she didn't think it warranted a full stop on the way to a rescue.

She frowned, watching Max palm his hat as he pushed in the second alcove door. She sighed, turning the vehicle back on and moved, turning across traffic and into a parking space on the West side of the building. Tupelo Ave was lined with scrubby oak and a few tourists that were stumbling down from the small park that tucked into the hillside before Town Hall.

The conversation in the morgue had left her unsettled and off balance. She didn’t like the implications. She didn’t like the idea that there was another man in her life lying to her. She’d liked Hunter, found him handsome and indulgent with a firm touch and a focus she could appreciate. She grabbed her phone, chewing her bottom lip before shooting off a quick text.

[sms] where were you guys two nights ago?

{sms} hello hunter 

{sms} how are you hunter 

{sms} i miss your mouth hunter

Jenna cleared her throat, glancing around as her skin heated quickly before thumbing a quick reply.

[sms] be fucking serious. this is important. where were you two days ago?

{sms} you mean after you left?

[sms] yes

{sms} first, disappointed in your decision to put clothes back on

[sms] hunter I will shoot you

{sms} hot

[sms] fuck off. we found a body with a handprint and all the signs are pointing to Levi

She started texting more, but the incoming text interrupted her before she could send.

{sms} It’s not Levi. He was with me.

Jenna Cameron huffed a slow breath, dread prickling cold over her palms and settling like weighted anxiety in the pit of her stomach.

[sms] Where. were. you?

There was a quick squeal of brakes to her left, startling her back to the moment. Main Street was starting to pick up, the early lunch crowd trickling from the government buildings and out onto the streets to find food. She glanced back through the rear window before leaning to duck and look out the passenger side window to see if she could pick Max from the crowd, bitter about the tinting. 

{sms} this could be tracked and I can’t answer that

[sms] you’re not making it easy to believe you

{sms} Levi says hi

{sms} it wasn’t us. You’re just going to have to believe me.

She waited for five minutes. She _waited_. Jenna Cameron wasn't someone who enjoyed being on hold.

**

"This is not a smile that is safe," Levi commented, glancing at Hunter and then back out the window of the forest green Bronco. "I am knowing this smile."

"Shut up," Hunter replied, clearing his throat and shifting to pocket the phone again.

Levi made a face and handed him back the coffee he'd taken when Hunter had startled at the vibrating in his back pocket. The air inside the Bronco was the sort of breath warm and damp that made the seats stick to his skin slightly. He was tired, half-awake from the early morning. He never slept well in cars, but he still tried. Levi Skye liked being able to sprawl. He liked large beds with soft sheets and too many pillows. He liked being able to wake up slowly, the morning light canting around the bedroom and splashing up the walls. He didn’t like curtains. He didn’t like the false, heavy, dark of a room within a room.

Hunter Manes sipped his coffee and continued to stare out the window, watching the empty looking hillside in front of them. They were perched on a butte cliff, tire tracks fading away in the soft breeze that whipped across the plain and slammed against the rock face. The scrub brush prickled out of the cracks in the dirt, twisting and grasping at the gravel. A few spare-looking yucca spiked tall just past the edge of the trail they’d followed. Below them, Alamogordo sprawled to the horizon, the late morning sun starting to skim over the far off huddle of houses. To the West, the mountains jockeyed against the clouds, picking up the faint lavender and rose tones of morning.

“Was it-”

“Yes.” 

Levi grinned, happily surprised, and twisted in the seat, mouth dropping open to ask a question. “D-?”

“-I told her.” Hunter had a way of interrupting him before he’d even spoken. Levi sighed and nodded once. He opened his mouth to ask another question, cocking his head thoughtfully. “She’s on a case, Levi.”

“I would appreciate speaking.” Levi reached to pluck the coffee from Hunter, taking a sip and frowning out the front window.

“I would appreciate silence.” Hunter slanted him a look from the corner of his eye. He had his hair half caught up, but it still escaped the sloppy ponytail in small tendrils that he was forever tucking behind his ears.

“What you are wanting and what is happening are-”

“Wildly different things. Yes, I am aware.”

“As long as you are knowing.”

“As long as you _know_.”

“That is what I said.”

“I want to not be in a car with you staking out my brother.”

“Then we are in agreement.”

The silence settled around them again and Levi took another sip of the coffee. It wasn’t hot anymore, gone luke warm and sweet. Hunter liked his coffee half sugar and milk, and Levi had learned to like it the same way. He sucked the sweet from his teeth, glancing casually at Hunter before holding the cup out to him again. His friend took it without looking, swigging from the cup and setting it back into the console. 

“We cou-”

“Nope.”

“We could talk ab-”

“Nope.”

Levi closed his eyes taking a slow, careful breath in through his nose before turning and leveling a flat look at where Hunter had shifted to sling one arm over the steering wheel and laid his chin on the back of his wrist. He was a broad man with sharp features. He took up space. “We are going to talk about this.”

“You mean you are going to talk and I am going to ignore you.”

“Yes.”

“It’s not like I have a choice.”

“You _are_ trapped.”

Hunter rolled his shoulders and then his head, turning to rest his temple against the back of his wrist and watch Levi in the hazy late morning sun. “I could just get out of the car.”

“This is true, but it is cold.” Levi shrugged and settled into the seat more comfortably, careful to not put his boots on the seats. “You do not like the cold.” He closed his eyes and let the weak sunlight coming through the window warm his jeans, the heat of the denim nice against his skin. “Flint is here.”

“Maybe.”

Levi tilted his head at Hunter, blinking once at the stubborn hopeful denial. “He is at Stradlater and that is not a good thing. The last time-”

“I don’t think bringing up-”

“The last time we tried to-”

“Fine. _Fuck_, Levi. I _know_, okay?”

“I do not like putting you back together. It is very draining.”

“You could stop.”

Levi snorted, shaking his head. “So could you.”

“You know I can’t.”

“There is your answer.”

**

Max waved loosely as he passed Arturo, shouldering through the swinging doors to the back and into a stomping maelstrom of noise. He stumbled to a stop, the flurry of motion catching him by surprise before settling into something his brain recognized, something his brain paused and went on alert around. Rosa Ortecho was a hurricane. Rosa Ortecho was streaming down the stairs, hair wild around her shoulders as she spoke rapid-fire spanish over her shoulder to where Maria DeLuca was trailing her at a slower pace. Rosa didn’t slow and didn’t notice him, plowing ahead with a single-minded purpose. Max Evans braced for impact.

“Fuck!” Rosa bounced off of him and shoved back, arms straight as she glowered up at him. It felt familiar; it felt like deja vu. She was glaring at him, face a riot of rage and an underlying current of something utterly devastated and vulnerable. It looked like fear. “What the _fuck?_ What are _you_ doing here?”

Max felt his mouth go dry, caught up as always in the stunning vitality of the Ortecho women. Her dark eyes snapped at him, glittering in the overhead lights. He could only seem to focus in on the beauty mark next to her eye, stopping like it was punctuation to the sentence he hadn’t known he was asking. “I was-”

“Whatever. You’re in the way.”

“He could help, Rosa.” Maria stepped down off the last stair, giving him a quick tight smile and a light wave. “Hey, Max.”

“He could help with what?” Max replied, nodding at her and tapping the brim of his hat against his chest. 

“He’s a cop. I don’t trust the cops.”

“I’m also vanilla,” Max replied, wetting his lips and giving her a quick smile quirked into a sharp tease. “Very dangerous vanilla.”

“The yogurt speaks,” Rosa replied, crossing her arms over her chest and cocking her head up at him. 

“The yogurt also has a gun.” 

“Are you threatening me?”

“Do you need to be threatened?”

Rosa narrowed her eyes at him and Max had a thrilling moment of being seen. He took a half step closer. Rosa had the same wide, dark eyes, full mouth, and lustrous black hair, but she had a fire that simmered on the surface of her skin. She had a stubborn set to her jaw, a way of tilting her chin up like she was ready to be hit by the next blow life would throw at her. She didn’t back away from him, simply narrowed her eyes and curled her hands into fists at her sides.

“Just tell him, Rosa. This isn’t something we can do on our own.”

The tense moment broke when Rosa looked to where Maria was standing, face mild and reasonable as she gestured between where Max and Rosa stood. 

Rosa frowned at her darkly before looking back up at Max. “You guys said he was dead, but he’s sending me letters.”

“I don’t follow.”

“_Ophiuchus_. The guy. The one that you all say killed me. I just got a letter.” She slowed down, speaking clearly and enunciating like he was being particularly dense. Max couldn’t help the fond smile that cracked over his face at the sass. “Not really a smiling reaction.”

“I’m sorry. I just have two reactions to being treated like an idiot. Being amused is the safer one.”

“This must happen a lot.”

“Rosa!” Maria’s voice was a sharp reprimand that Max barely registered. He was fascinated.

Rosa huffed, frowning up at him. He could feel the terror like it was sitting cold on her skin, like it crept towards him and begged him to turn on the hallway light at night. He wanted to reach and pull her close, to wrap her up against him and tuck his mouth against her hair. He wanted her to believe him that everything was going to be alright. He wanted her to know she wasn’t alone.

“Take me through what happened,” he said instead, voice going low and official. 

“Not here. I don’t want Dad to-”

“Understood.” Max gestured to the side door that led out into the alley and Rosa nodded, turning on a quick heel and walking in front of him. He followed, jogging forward to catch and hold the door for her, letting Maria follow, before ducking outside himself. The air was cold, the alley a soft cardboard smell with undercurrents of egg and milk, of breakfast. Mostly, he could smell the faint ferrous tang of the fire escape, present and heady like he could almost feel the chipping paint under his palms. It was like he was a teenager again, wishing he could climb to the roof and laugh with Liz in the night. Wishing he could count stars shoulder to shoulder with her. Wishing he could touch the soft tips of her dark hair between his fingers. 

The door shut behind them in gasps of metal on metal, the first clatter of latch and then the softer heave of closing. The alley was quiet, the sound of cars muffled between the buildings. It felt tucked away. It felt private. 

“So what happened?”

Rosa reached into her pocket, pulling out a piece of paper and waved it at him. “Before...” she paused, frowning darkly, and Max tucked his thumbs into his belt to keep from trying to smooth the concerned crease from between her brows. “So, I thought it was your sister sending me these, but apparently it wasn’t her? But you guys said the guy who was sending them was dead, but I got this today. Maria found it tucked into my window.” Rosa pushed the letter against Max’s chest and he took it quickly, unfolding it and reading the two line note a few times. “That means he was right there.” She whirled, pointing up to the window on the second floor, the platform of the fire escape above their heads. “He was right there. He could have been watching me.”

“Have you gone ou-”

“I use it almost every day. I went out yesterday nigh-”

“Where did you go?”

Rosa frowned, looking around as she bounced on her heels. She was restless energy and annoyance made flesh. “I was going to Maria’s, but I ran into a friend.”

“A friend.”

“Yes, _Dad_. A friend.”

“Rosa, this is important. If someone is threatening you-”

“It wasn’t him.”

“_Him_?” Max frowned hard, glaring at the paper in his hand. He read the words again, felt the rich vellum stationery. There was a pounding in his ears, a rage that seemed to find the beat of seconds on his watch. He glanced up at where Rosa was standing with her arms crossed over her chest. 

“He’s sweet.”

“Let me get this straight. You’ve been back for-”

“I’m not dead, Max. I’m allowed to have a life. I deserve to have a life.”

“That was why I brought you back,” Max muttered.

“Yes, thank you for that.” Rosa cleared her throat. “He’s-”

Max crumpled the paper. “Show me.”

“What?”

“Just show me. This will be faster.” He waved her closer, sniffing once and holding his hands up and out like she would simply step closer and let him settle them against her jaw.

“What? No-”

Max shook his head, impatient and worried. The clock was ticking. He didn’t have time for teenage intrigue. He didn’t have time. Her life was in danger and he hadn’t brought her back just to lose her again. He hadn’t sacrificed everything to lose her. He deserved the truth. He could hear the soft noise of time passing. The ticking was nearly audible. Max deserved to know. 

He took a quick step forward, ignoring the way Rosa flinched back as he cupped her face and held her gaze. He knew what he was doing. He’d gotten better at this. He tossed himself into the mindscape, tossed the net of linked thought between them. He tossed himself into Rosa’s mind like spreading a warm blanket over them. She stilled. He looked at her, trying to keep his face soft, to keep his face open and non threatening. “Rosa. _Show me._”

“Max.” She looked like Liz for a breath, wide dark eyes, full mouth, soft skin, and lustrous hair. She looked like Liz in the way she went breathless against his palm as the world slowed to a spinning halt around them. He heard the ticking of his watch, the sound stretching and slowing with the way the light went sideways and hazy. It echoed between them, ricocheting between the held gaze. She looked like Liz, and Max was helpless to the way he wanted to see her against his fingers, head tilted back and looking up at him in wonder. He loved the way his name sounded in her voice.

The world went gaussian, stretching pearlescent around the edges with Rosa at the center of his world. She stared up at him and he wanted the rest of the world gone. Here, it listened, fading out in a swirl of deep rose and navy until it was them in the middle of vast and endless nothing. The world faded away until it was simply the two of them, floating in the black as she stayed still, paused where he kept her.

Somewhere, he could hear a voice saying his name. Somewhere, the world still existed.

“Hello,” he said, voice cracking soft.

Rosa blinked, slowly. She didn’t recognize him. She looked confused. “Max?”

He glanced behind him, feeling something looking at them but the black didn’t shift, didn’t move, just pulled tighter like deepening night. He was surrounded by it, just them in the dark. “Who did you meet, Rosa?”

The scene shifted in a quick rush of motion, the buildings skidding to a halt at right angles to where they stood. Rosa was yelling at someone. She was standing too close. The stranger was blurred and indistinct, hazy like a ghost as she sparkled and glowed - vigorously alive.

“November.” The word was followed by a golden pulse, some emotion that throbbed through her and echoed into him - sweet and overwhelming.

Behind them, the windows of the UFO Emporium were dark, littered with flyers and Max could see himself in the reflection. He could see himself in the dark windows like he was staring out at himself in a mirror. Max lifted a hand, watching himself in reflection, watching himself in slow motion. It was hazy. It was ethereal. It was beautiful. It was _his_.

He started to turn, catching his reflection in the corner of his eye as it erupted into motion, screaming and pounding fists against the glass, and Max stumbled back.

When he looked back, his reflection was sedate again, cocking his head in mirrored confusion. 

“What’s November?”

“Who.”

“Who’s November?” He could hear himself talking, walking towards the reflection of himself in the window. The closer he got the more he could see past the window and out into the world beyond. He could see himself talking to Rosa beyond the glass. He could see himself cupping her face, thumb soft as it stroked over her jaw. He could see the way he took a step closer. He could see the way he wanted to bend, to catch her mouth in his. He could see his fingers tangling in her hair.

“I don’t know.”

He could see himself wanting, through the reflection in the window. He took a step closer, touching the glass and hitting a solid wall. Beyond, Rosa was looking up at him. Beyond the glass, he was looking down at her, mouth moving as he ducked to whisper against her ear. Max frowned, pushing on the clear wall in front of him, pushing on the glass and feeling the cold of it against his palms. Nothing in this space was real, but the glass wouldn’t move, wouldn’t bend, wouldn’t go thin as a soap bubble and let him back through. He watched himself talk to Rosa. He watched.

Panic set in quickly, flooding through him as he started to scream. He started to slap his hands against the invisible barrier of the window between them. He started to pound his fists, erupting into motion and trying to get to the side of the window - to where what was happening was wrong and off. Where he wasn't him. Where he was in love with the wrong girl.

“What did he look like?”

“_Beautiful,_” Rosa answered and Max was back, back in his body and standing inches away from where Rosa was staring up at the hazy figure that eeled like smoke, edges of the figure reaching to stroke over her skin.

He could hear someone yelling his name. 

“Rosa?” he asked.

“He’s beautiful and he’s mine.”

Max’s world cracked down the middle in pain and jealousy, a scream like the scratch of metal on metal splitting across his mind as his head rocked to the side. The blow slapping him out of the dark and into the alley again. The blow rocking his head to the side and out of the sight of Rosa Ortecho glowing and perfect and into the bright back alley. He caught himself against the dumpster, tonguing at the inside of his cheek and glancing back at where Jenna Cameron was glaring at him, fists raised.

“Max?”

Maria gathered Rosa to her, putting the girl behind her and staring in confused fear at where Max sighed, ducked his head, and spit. “Damn it, Cam.”

“What the hell, partner?”

“I was getting-”

“You were out of control, Max.”

“No-”

“Get your shit together. I’m taking them to the bunker. You know, the _bunker_? Where we were supposed to be going to rescue your _girlfriend_?”

Max stiffened, a flush of cold panic catching him and pulling him straight. “Liz.”

“I hope your coffee was worth it.”

**

Liz was staring at the mess of her experiments, the prick test glass tubing coated in white, the test tubes a mess of crackling glass, and the petri dish invisible under the layer of potassium bicarbonate. The air felt cold, tight to her skin as she slowly reached and curled her fingers comfortingly into the back of Kyle’s shirt. He was panting, the fabric a bit damp along his spine. “I think... I think you got it?”

“_You think_?” Kyle managed to sound amused and terrified in one breath, glancing back over his shoulder at her. He had a bit of white in his hair, hands still white-knuckled on the extinguisher. She wanted to pluck it from his grip, wanted to do anything other than stay tucked against him. He was her shield. It was proof that she’d been scared. It was proof she was in over her head.

“I have been known to be wrong.” She nodded, widening her eyes. 

“Did you just admit to bei-?” He started to turn, shirt staying in her hand and twisting around his torso. 

“I admit to being wrong,” she interrupted, affronted and momentarily forgetting her panic. She was opening her mouth to argue more when the door to the bunker hissed open. A plume of pressurized air venting and kicking a small dust storm of white particles to lift into the space, dancing in the unhappy green and yellow lighting. She startled, ducking behind Kyle again at the noise and then yelped when she remembered that put her closer to the thing in the dish. Liz stumbled away, tripping lightly down the two steps and back into the pit under the doorway, the long heavy table comforting against her hip. 

The fog cleared and Max Evans stood backlit in the doorway, long legs tense as he kept a hand on his service revolver and the other bracing his wrist. He focused under the brim of his hat, pulling up straight and blinking at the mess they made of the bunker, the white extinguisher foam coating the table and starting to drip and puddle on the floor. 

The bunker narrowed to a breath of silence, the fans chuffing through their cycle. The long table in the middle was solid wood and planted between the old rolling chairs. On the alcove platform, Kyle Valenti brandished the red fire extinguisher and a look of dismay. The monitors stayed dark, just a blinking cursor at the bottom left. The lights were catching a mesmerizing swirl of dust and particles - a purple glow muffled under a layer of white foam. Liz froze in a panicked crouch, posture reminiscent of a cave dwelling creature being thrust into the light. She blinked widely at him, registering relief as she straightened. Her hand went to her wrecked hair before scuffing over cheeks tracked with tears from her earlier panic.

“Liz?”

“Max!” Liz flung herself into motion, met halfway as Max palmed the hand rail and vaulted to land lightly and catch her.

“_Great_.” Kyle blew out a breath and dropped the empty canister, the metal sound clamoring around the space as he relaxed. “This guy.”

Liz ignored him, caught against the broad warmth of Max’s chest, her face tucked into the scratchy poly cotton blend of his uniform, the cord of his radio mic catching at her hair. He folded around her, mouth going to her hair, breath heated puffs against her part. She felt safe. She felt safe and protected as his hands settled against her back. She pressed closer, taking a set of careful breaths, eyes closed as she let her pulse fade into a regular rhythm. “You came.”

“I had to make a stop. Sorry, I’m late.” He nodded, shifting to bump her forehead with his nose. She nodded and tilted back to look up at him, his concern vivid in the soft gaze. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Now,” Kyle interrupted, waving a hand and cocking his head at where Max turned to look at him. “She’s fine, _now._”

Max cupped the back of her head, fingers digging into the weight of her hair as he turned to put himself between where Kyle was glaring and she was standing. “What happened?”

“What took you so long, Evans?” Kyle didn’t slow down, chucking his chin and gesturing at the door and then a wide arc that encompassed the mess. “How did I beat you here?”

“I made a stop.”

“A _stop_?” Kyle’s eyebrows shot up before he straightened, chin tucking like the answer was surprising. “A stop? Liz is in trouble and you made a _stop_?”

“Yes.”

“What in the world was more impor-”

“Ophiuchus is back.” Max cocked his head, ducking to palm his cowboy hat and set it on the table next to them.

“Ophiuchus?” Liz grabbed at his wrist, pulling his attention back to her. “He’s _dead_.”

“What’s Ophiuchus?” Kyle asked, the frown deepening on his angular face, pulling his full mouth to a flat line. He paced down the steps, pausing on the bottom to tap his heels against the cement, shaking the last of the foam from his sneakers. 

“It’s the name Noah was using when he controlled Isobel in high school when he talked to Rosa.” Max glanced over at him, but his gaze was settling on the mess behind him, the footprints in the white foam like the first in fresh snowfall. He pointed a question at it, lifting his eyebrows at Liz. She nodded lightly, answering him.

“That’s a whole lot of words that put together seem to make a sentence.” Kyle put a hand on the table in the center of the room, at home here in the bunker, comfortable in the space in a way Liz hadn’t managed yet. He kicked up his heel, crossing it to brace his ankle over his knee and pick at the bits of white that were tenaciously clinging to his shoelaces. “Explain it to me like this is the first I’m hearing it. Because, you know, it is.”

Liz watched Max start to move, eyes sweeping the alcove as he shifted forward. It was methodical and reassuring, like he was reading a book from left to right with a serene focus. “Rosa used to get notes from a secret admirer who called themselves Ophiuchus.” She could feel her nerves start to coil tightly in her palms as she watched Max start slowly up the stairs to the alcove. “At first we thought it was Isobel, but she was being controlled by Noah from inside the pod during her blackouts. Noah admitted to being Ophiuchus, admitted that he was in love with Rosa.”

“And you murdered him. Haven’t forgotten that part, Evans.”

“What would you have done, Valenti?” Max snapped, tart and half paying attention. “Let him kill everyone?”

Kyle opened his mouth to answer, closing it just as quickly with a soft sigh. “So, when you say he’s back?”

“Rosa got a new letter.”

“She _what_? When? How?” Liz took a half step towards Max, pausing when he threw out a hand, continuing to pace towards the mess. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

“I’m pretty sure it just happened. Jenna’s with her. Maria too. They’ll be here shortly.” Max was focused on the dish on the table. The frozen foam was melting slowly, peeling down the sides of the glass, bubbling away from the heat lamp. The purple light stuttered a few times, a soft curl of smoke twirling out from under the shade. Max closed the distance, looking down at the petri dish, face inscrutable. He paused, pocketing his service revolver as an afterthought and started to reach for the dish.

“Stop!” 

Max glanced over at her, hand paused. “Is this?”

“It might not be dead. I think we killed it.” Liz tucked her hair behind her ear, shuddering at the memory of movement - the way the thing in the dish lunged at her. “I think?”

“It?”

“One of the samples must have been contaminated. The heat activated it and it... it tried to get me?” She trailed off, frowning at how it sounded out loud. It sounded like a child afraid of the dark, afraid of the monster under the bed. 

“Back to Ophiuchus. If Noah wasn’t Ophiuchus-”

“He was.” Max took a small step closer, reaching to turn the heat lamp off with a small click.

“Then he’s not dead?”

“No, he’s dead. You’ve seen the body.”

“I’ve seen _a_ body.” Kyle crossed his arms over his chest, looking between where Max was still staring down at the dish, gaze gone lost. “I’ve seen _two_ bodies now. There’s a handprint death they brought in from the desert.”

“What if Noah wasn’t Ophiuchus, Max?”

“What is Ophiuchus, anyway? Do I need to googl-”

“Ophiuchus is a mythological figure,” Max answered absently, voice shifting into the lilt of lecture. It was like he was answering a question in lit class, nodding as he continued. “It means serpent-bearer. Like, think of a man and a serpent locked in struggle, the snake wrapped around the man and the man grasping the head of the snake. It’s a sign of struggle, but it also represents healing.”

“Why in the world do you know all of this?” Kyle’s voice was sharp, cutting into the lecture.

Max shrugged. “Noah ranted about it before everything went down. Seemed important to look it up now.” Max shrugged, setting his fingers on the top of the petri dish. Liz heard a small yelp of panic that skipped over her tongue, but the dish stayed silent and unmoving. “He called himself Ophiuchus. Said a bunch of crazy things and then tried to kill me.” He hunkered down at the edge of the table, twisting the petri dish to look at it up close. “Ophiuchus was supposed to be able to bring the dead back to life. But, it has other meanings too. Like, I know that one book I read likened Ophiuchus to the Artist card in the tarot.” He stood again, plucking the dish off the table and shaking it lightly. “It was pretty interesting; the card is the opposite of the Lover’s card. The Lovers representing one whole broken into two halves and the Artist - Ophiuchus - representing two wholes becoming one.” He shrugged. “Soul-mates versus soul-fusion, I guess? One is like discovery; the other is consumption.” 

Max’s gaze never wavered, stroking over the edge of the dish like he was lost in the shape of it. The thing under the glass didn’t move. “It’s dead.” He nodded and glanced over at where Liz and Kyle were standing. “Whatever was in here isn’t moving.”

Kyle stared at him for a long moment before turning and raising both eyebrows at her. “That was creepy, right? We’re going to acknowledge how creepy that was?”

“Kyle,” she started.

“Don’t _Kyle_ me, that was-”

“You asked, man.” Max straightened, blinking a few times before jogging back down the steps in a slight bow-legged gait. He frowned at Kyle, reaching to hold the dust-filled dish out to the other man. “Not my fault you didn’t study.”

“Boys.” Liz wanted to step between them, shove them apart like a pair of particularly ridiculous puppies. She sighed. “When you’re done dancing, can we focus on what’s important?” She took a quick step forward, snatching the petri dish from Max, and headed toward the small pool of light from the lamp on the table. 

The thing in the petri dish wasn’t coherent anymore; it no longer eeled around under the glass. Instead, the inside of the sealed dish was coated in a fine gray powder, weighted and shifting from side to side as she tilted it under the light. It looked like sand, like pollen. “Like spores.”

She set the dish down and stared at the bank of monitors, narrowing her eyes as she let her brain take a moment to catch up with the new information. Behind her Max and Kyle were still bristling at each other, but she ignored them, shifting to stand, hands on her hips as she glared at nothing. “If it’s spores, that makes sense with the addition of heat. They were probably part of a dormant mold? Fungus? Something.” She sucked her teeth, narrowing her eyes as she continued to stare into space before kicking into motion, darting to the bank of computers and shaking the mouse to wake the massive server system up. “Dr. Braeden is laughing his ass off at me right now.” 

Liz shook her head before straightening and catching her hair back, flicking it into a loose ponytail as she waited for each monitor to shiver back to life. “You’re too focused on one biological type, Elizabeth. You should diversify your knowledge base, Elizabeth. Maybe you should consider branching areas of focus, Miss Ortecho.” She rolled her eyes and bent, pausing with her fingers over the keys as the search command line flicked to life. “I think I saw something about a strange collection of hyphae in a document somewhere.” She sniffed, itching her chin absently with her shoulder before starting to type the search parameters. “Maybe it was eukaryotes that I saw?” 

“You think there’s something in the Project Shepherd data?” Kyle’s voice carried and she glanced over her shoulder at where they were both standing and watching her. 

“I think they have a shit load of data that I haven’t even started looking at yet. I think there has got to be something in here that makes all of this plausible.” She paused, throwing an arm to point at the abandoned dish. “That was the N-02 sample, right?” She turned back. “Check it for me?”

“You want me to touch the dead alien spore thing that tried to attack me earlier?”

“When you put it that way-”

“Fine.” 

“You think they’d seen this before?” Max moved next to her, watching the file search spin, the possible hits climbing as it sorted. 

“I hope?”

“Yeah, you were right. It’s the N-02 sample.”

Liz started nodding, pausing to click on a folder that was labeled saprotrophic xenogenetic deuteromycota. “Say that three times fast,” she joked, touching her tongue to the line of her teeth when the file started to unzip, the decompression of data ticking the scanned document into focus in increments. She watched it resolve into a full document, lines of thick black marker redacting nearly the entire written content. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“Dead end.” She ducked, trying a different search path. “Maybe we can find something about the cellular degeneration we saw on Noah’s body? That had something vaguely familiar. I printed a file earlier to look at, let me find it again.” 

“It wasn’t present on the second body,” Kyle stated, moving to her other shoulder and watching her work. “I think that might be isolated to that particular... person? Body? Corpse?”

“Unless the electrical charge that killed him was a-”

“Electrical charge?”

“Lightning.” Max coughed. “I... um. I shot lightning out of my hands.”

Liz could feel the way she and Kyle both stopped what they were doing to stare at where Max was trying to look non-threatening and abashed. “Lightning?”

“I’m not entirely sure, I just-”

“Not important right now,” Liz cut in, turning back to the screen, but not before tossing Max a side-eyed glance. “I don’t think an electrical charge would cause that level of- Oh! Bingo.”

The file that popped up had a fuzzy pixelated black and white picture of a young boy, hollow eyed and gaunt with short cropped pale hair and dark brows. The picture had a hand scrawled date at the bottom: August 12, 1953. The file had a vague human figure with a few labeled markings, the height and weight of the subject listed in clinical terms. 

“Is that?”

“Levi. Yeah. I glanced at this yesterday? Day before? And it stuck-”

“This is from the fifties, Liz.” Kyle had reached out to touch the screen with the picture, finger dimpling the monitor slightly. “There’s no way that’s Levi.”

“I don’t know, Kyle. I’m figuring this out as we go. I ran across his death certificate too, so there’s more than one alien that’s come back to life. Maybe-” She batted his hand from the monitor. “But what I do know, is that he has the same annotations of cellular degeneration in his file. Like, when samples were separated from the original, they degraded.”

“You mean when they cut parts of him off.” Kyle’s voice was as sharp as the implication, disappointed and unsurprised.

Liz swallowed, ducking her head. “Yeah.”

“And they called us fucking monsters,” Max muttered, pushing away and turning from the file. She half-turned, worried about the flat tone.

“Max,” she breathed, apologetic and quiet even as he tugged his arm back and shook his head. 

“Keep digging.”

The suggestion feels weighted, a structure that’s plopped down in the middle of the room like a wall. It separated her from Max. It separated her from Kyle. It pressed against her as her mind presented and discarded hypothesis after hypothesis, none of the ideas gaining traction as she skimmed through the clinical descriptions in the open file. “You said Noah looked soggy?”

“Yeah, like bread that was left in water,” Max muttered, closing his eyes and shifting his weight to hook his thumbs into the edge of his belt. 

“Right. But the sample that... the sample that I was working from was from before he died. I was able to save it from the original samples from the bloody shirt I-”

“Liz!” Maria’s voice interrupted her, a clatter of shoes on cement, the deeper notes of boot heels, and a scuff of sneaker. Liz turned, the move mirrored by Max and Kyle as Maria grabbed the rail and started down the steps, followed by Rosa and Jenna. The women piled into the space without preamble, a flurry of hurried motion as Maria waved her over. “You need to see this.”

“I still don’t think it’s him,” Rosa muttered, sullen and stubborn as she slapped her sketchbook down on the table. 

“Think it’s who?”

“See for yourself.” Jenna Cameron was watching Max warily, arms folded over her chest as they locked eyes across the table. 

Rosa thumbed the sketchpad open. It was a nine by twelve inch Strathmore gray-toned sketch pad that was half-filled with doodles and drawings, people and landscapes, roses and cacti. Rosa Ortecho was talented, the sketches moving from cartoonish doodles to precise portraits of diner patrons. Liz caught a glimpse of their father, of Frederico, of Maria with her long hair in high school. There was a moment she thought she saw her mother, but the page turned too fast to be sure. She stopped when Rosa slipped to the last page, smoothing it open and taking a step back. “There. That’s November.”

[Noah Bracken stared at them from the page](https://66.media.tumblr.com/23a6ffd591f21ec0e2cbb8653e77f024/11decf79381c73c0-a5/s1280x1920/fe7686a82d365e92facd99eac9a494b214cc78ab.jpg). He looked younger, but there was no mistaking the set of his jaw, the width of his dark eyes, and Rosa had drawn him with an uncanny accuracy. The likeness was marred by a haunted, dark feel to his eyes and a long wicked-looking scar that curved from his left eyebrow, followed the eye socket, and then crossed the bridge of his nose. His hair was choppier, the stubble less refined, the feel of him like a sad melody that lingered. The group all paused, shocked as they studied the picture. She could feel the spark of anger that simmered off of Max like a ripple of rage.

“That’s Noah.”

“How is that possible?”

“He’s alive?”

“I saw his body?”

“You said you killed him?”

“How the fuck is this possible? Max?” Maria looked sharply at where Max was standing, transfixed by the sight of his brother-in-law in the lines of the picture. “Whose body did you find in the desert?”

“I... I don’t know.” Max sounded confused and lost, voice soft and settling into a long silence.

The quiet that settled in the bunker was swollen, overfull with the horrific truth that now sat between them. She could hear the soft buzz of the monitors, the electric whir of the interior fans on the massive rack of servers that sat just behind and to the right of the screens. The air kept circulating, the weight of history and violence unnoticed by the leather chairs, the lit glass dividers, the long table, and the weight of the arching rebar and cement ceiling. This place didn’t care about the violence. It was made to keep secrets and it had done its job well.

The search bar blinked the command line at her. The table held contradictory secrets. Her sister looked lost, stubborn and young in the overhead fluorescents. Jenna Cameron was stern-faced, catching Kyle’s eyes where they were standing on the outside of the group clustered around the sketchpad. Maria looked determined and frightened as she held Liz’s gaze. Max was staring at the sketch in confusion, eyebrows tight and chewing on his bottom lip. Liz had a puzzle with too many pieces.

And then a phone rang.

The group shocked up, glancing around the echoing space as the burred noise chirped again, ringing through the cement structure. A third ring and they looked at each other as if counting, as if taking stock of where they were and the surreal moment that was occurring.

The phone rang a fourth time. A fifth.

The sound was coming from the opposite side of the bunker, from the dark alcove to the right where the servers were stored. It was on the opposite side from where the lights were on, where the white foam had flattened and stained the experiment surface. It was coming from behind her and Liz whirled, facing the shadowed area as the phone continued to ring. It sounded old, analog. It sounded like an actual bell ringer.

“What?”

“Fuck _this_.”

“Rosa!” Maria tried to catch her as Rosa charged toward the shadow, hopping the stairs in a flurry of annoyed teen anger, and flung open a small metal cabinet door that was mounted on the wall in the dark. They all stared at the military green rotary phone that was perched in the cabinet. It rang again, the noise cutting off as Rosa Ortecho snatched the receiver from the cradle and held it stubbornly to her ear.

“...Hello?” Liz watched her sister, her ever brave and impulsive sister, tilt her head, utterly confused for a moment. “_Alex_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I CANNOT THANK THE INCOMPARABLE [EMMA-ARTHUR](https://emma-arthur.tumblr.com/) ENOUGH FOR THE BEAUTIFUL AND PERFECT PICTURE TO ACCOMPANY THIS STORY. I LOVE IT SO MUCH. I LOVE IT LOVE IT LOVE IT. It makes the context of this story so much larger, so much richer, and I am in awe of her talent.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://irolltwenties.tumblr.com/) if you want to flail with me. Cause that would be rad.


End file.
